Everybody Loves John Watson
by MrTails
Summary: John is utterly clueless when it comes to things not in a pretty skirt, but that doesn't stop them from loving him for their own reasons and fighting for him. Naturally, this does more harm than good for poor John.
1. Chapter 1

Everybody Loves John Watson

"I'm sorry John," She sounded distraught, but that was nothing new. "I just- I'm not good enough for you." Before he could respond, the line went dead. John sighed quietly to himself. He would have been broken up about it if it weren't for the fact that this always happened. His girlfriends, though he wasn't sure he could actually call them that, never lasted more than a few dates. This particularly one had managed four, unfortunately that was currently the record. They'd had dinner, which he thought had gone very well. They got along great, plenty of flirting and tender touches, and laughing (and no Sherlock), it was perfect. The date ended with a bit of snogging in the back of a cab and plans for coffee. Coffee went well, more getting to know each other and casual conversation. Then the cinema. She'd seemed a little nervous, but they often did. John was getting suspicious as to why, now. Still, they had a good time, flirting touches and a bit of whispering, and more kissing.

Their last date had been stressed, though. It was nothing more than a nice little dinner, but she was antsy. She kept adverting her eyes around as if someone was after her and, of course, it made John just as nervous. He'd questioned her several times about it, but she brushed it off and played a pretend smile. She flinched from his touch and when he tried to sooth her worry, she hurried off to the loo. The ride to her flat was quiet and she kept to the completely opposite side. Sure enough, the next day he received a call.

It wasn't the first time things had gone this way. In fact, it was a natural occurrence in his life. At first, John was sure it was him and that he kept doing something wrong, but their excuses were always a little bit strange. She was pretty and smart and he was positive even Sherlock would approve of her, if he absolutely had to, and John didn't understand why she would think she wasn't good enough. He debated calling back, but he knew she wouldn't answer. They never did. He was positive it wasn't him. Someone was doing this on purpose and he didn't like it. His first suspect was Sherlock, of course.

Wet sand eyes turned to his flat mate. Sherlock didn't notice, at the moment. He was fast asleep, face down on the couch. It was the first time he'd slept in days and John wasn't in any hurry to wake him. He was going to break yet and he did everything he could to make sure that didn't happen. As a doctor and Sherlock's closest friend, sometimes he just had to force him to do things. Due to Sherlock's run in with drugs before, it was incredibly hard to drug him, which was good in some ways, and awful in others. Thankfully, all John had to do was make him lay down and usually his body did the rest. On rare occasions, he needed very loud, very white noise to drown out his after-case thoughts, but he'd gone down easily today.

John had been hoping, but not expecting, another date. He wasn't the kind of man to simply date women for sex, but for fuck's sake, it had been months since he'd had any real contact. He sighed lowly as he relaxed into the little plush seat. A small glance around the room reminded him that tomorrow would require a lot of cleaning and making Sherlock clean. The taller male would keep everything if allowed to and in their small flat, it was just impossible. For now, though, there was nothing he could do. He plucked the paper out from under an avalanche of collective papers. He flickered out the edges and quietly browsed over the print.

The flat was quiet for once in a few weeks, and John was left alone with his thoughts. Not for very long, however. Quietly, his phone buzzed against his pocket. He wasn't particularly hopeful for her to call and it wasn't. It was Lestrade.

_Grab a pint? GL_

_Sure. JW_

He gave Sherlock another look over, to make sure he was still sleeping, before scribbling down a note as to where he was going. John stuck it to his forehead. Sherlock would probably instantly know where he went, but there was no harm in making sure. He shrugged on his coat and left the little building with a little weight on his shoulder. As far as he was concerned, these things were only happening with his dates. Sherlock wasn't affected, which made him more wary of the man, and neither were the rest of the people in his everyday life. Not Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade, or even Sarah, even if she acted as though she knew something he didn't.

Lestrade was waiting for him outside, smiling as pleasantly as he always did. He was still dressed in his work clothes, and John assumed he'd just finished the rest of the paper work. After particularly brutal cases like this, it was typical for them all to need a little rest.

"Perfect timing." John complimented. Lestrade opened the passenger side door for him, but he didn't think much of it.

"Oh?"

"Just put my man child to sleep and another failed relationship." The blonde explained as if it were an everyday occurrence. It was, actually. Lestrade offered a small, sympathy free chuckle. Now, the little army man was never open mouthed about his relationships, but Lestrade always seemed to know a little more than he needed to and it was strange, seeing as he doubted Sherlock spread his business, especially to DI Lestrade.

"Then you definitely need a drink." The inspector assured him and John only nodded in agreement. "What happened with your girlfriend, if I may ask? You seemed happy most of the week."

"Yeah, well, I don't really know." He explained as he straightened out the edge of his coat and casually rested his hands in his lap. Lestrade's hazel eyes followed the movement with a flicker of the eyes as he drove. "Things always go well and then someone scares them off. You don't know anything about that, do you?"

"Sherlock?" Lestrade offered, though his tone was surer than his face was.

"That's what I was thinking." John sighed patiently. "But I don't think he'd actually frighten them like that. I mean, she really looked like someone was out to get her." He couldn't think of anyone that would want to do such a thing. If they were after him, it seemed unlikely that they would go to such lengths to keep him from becoming attached.

"Maybe you have a stalker?" He suggested. John had thought of that, too. "I mean, between your blog and being so popular, it's likely that you've attracted some attention, as well. You are an attractive man." The shorter male made a face of disapproval, but didn't mention the statement.

"I'm sure Sherlock would know by now if I was being followed by some stalker. On the other hand, I'm sure he would find it hilarious." He pinched the bridge of his nose in a way anyone would find endearing.

"I don't know how you put up with him."

"He has his good moments." John claimed. Sherlock wasn't always a pain, after all. Despite everyone people thought they knew about him, he could be very cuddly when he wanted to be, hold proper conversation on occasion, and could ask for attention without showing off. There were times where he could just sit beside John the couch, leaned against him, and pleasantly watch the telly. These times were few and far between, but John was even becoming fond of his lesser qualities. He'd given up on trying to break him of any of them, though he really did try to get him to be nicer to people.

He really didn't think Sherlock would allow him to be stalked. If he did know anything about it, then there had to be a good reason behind it. On the other hand, this was Sherlock Holmes. It wouldn't hurt to ask him about it. Sherlock usually gave him a straight answer if asked a straight question.

The small local pub was a quiet little place, leaving John and Lestrade to share a bit of casual conversation. After improving Sherlock's social skills, and directing him in a direction of not being a complete prick to his 'co-workers', he'd become decent friends with Lestrade. It was comforting to be able to chat with someone that didn't feel the need to point out every little detail of everything he said. Lestrade was just Lestrade, capable of people problems and people conversation.

"How's the Mrs.?"

"Finalized the divorce."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm happy."

It was a full hour and a half before Sherlock awoke and proceeded to send him a string of text consisting of asking where he was and what he was doing and who he was with. He wasn't even sure why he bothered with writing notes. He was just sober enough to properly respond, though it was delayed by his sluggish movements.

"You could ignore 'im." Lestrade insisted, though he was still slightly more sober than his mate.

"Yeah, if I want'a spend the next week in a special kind of hell." John grumbled back. He wasn't sure why Sherlock was always so desperate to know where he was. He could take care of himself, after all, and while Sherlock proved to be very helpful in such situations, he was always the one that got him into situations he needed to be saved from. Besides, he deserved a little relaxation after having to run all over London after him this week.

The older man snorted a little, rolling up his sleeves as if it would help him cool off. John examined his phone for further text, but received none. That was either good or extremely bad. He decided not to worry about it, though, and turned back to his beer. Lestrade seemed to be watching him more than he needed to be, but his mild haze and over all cluelessness left him not to think much of it.

"You wanna taste?"

"Hell yes." He responded perhaps a little too quickly. John held out the bottle he was holding and it took Lestrade a moment to realize they were not on the same page. The beer, right. That was what he meant. He unceremoniously took a swig from the stray bottle before sliding it back across the table top. More conversation followed, but he couldn't focus on it. He didn't want to admit this, but he was jealous of that damn bottle. It was impossible not to be with John's pale lips sliding over the dark lipped glass, tapping against his teeth every so often the smallest of 'clinks', and meting that perfectly shaped flexible tongue again and again.

Gregory Lestrade was in love with John Watson. It wasn't a sudden realization. It had been a feeling bubbling in the bottom of his stomach since they first met. He was an incredible person. Handsome, mild mannered, patient, Lestrade could name features all night. Well, if he were thinking properly. Honestly, did drinking really require that much mouth to bottle contact? He had bigger problems than that, though. One would think that the main problem here would be John's glowing heterosexuality, but his problem was bigger than that. Six whole feet bigger. His other problem was six feet and one inch. Or, better known, as Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes.

He had other problems, sure, but they were hardly noticeable. Mycroft, on the other hand, had blatantly threatened him twice to stay away from John. He wouldn't, of course, and despite Mycroft's position, he didn't believe the man would truly hurt him for many reasons. Sherlock was slightly more of a problem, seeing as he lived with John, but thankfully, John kept the Holmes at an arm's length. He wasn't any different at the moment, but he was making more progress than he could say for the other two. After all, the Holmes did not 'have a pint'. They were cold and calculating people and John was a kind person, much more adapt to someone he could properly conversant with, which DI Lestrade just happened to be.

"And- fuck, if I find one more body part in the kitchen, I think I might actually choke him." That left him with the problem of John having little else to talk about. Lestrade understood, but it wasn't exactly flirting conversation. The little blonde man rubbed his cheek with his fingers and brought his palm over his lips, drawing it down to show the row of lovely white teeth.

"Sorry. You probably don't want'a hear about Sherlock." John slurred mildly. No. No he did not.

"Don't worry about it." Lestrade assured him with the smallest of shrugs. "You don't have anyone else ta talk ta."

"I don't." The smaller male agreed. "Thank you, Greg. Really."

"Course. Anytime." He smiled back. The night drew on and the conversation grew better. It went from talking about Sherlock, to more pleasant conversation about spots and a few exchanges of daily life stories, and bits of other things he probably wouldn't remember come tomorrow. He was proud to say, however, that he knew the other man slightly better than he had when they arrived. Eventually, they called it a night and called a cabbie to head home. John leaned him on as they waited, as if he couldn't support his own weight, but Lestrade didn't mind. He explained where to take them and the smaller male drifted to sleep in the back of the cab.

God he was gorgeous. He just wanted to run his fingers through those feathery blonde locks. He touched his fingers against the nape of John's neck and along his jaw. Dark beige eyes wearily peeked open to look at him and Lestrade simply could not resist those ever so slightly parted lips. He leaned into the smaller male romantically and was met with a face full of hand.

"Hey." John said sharply. "You're drunk. It's John." He explained firmly. Lestrade should have expected as much. John was completely oblivious to most forms of flirting. As long as it didn't come from a pretty girl, he didn't think anything of it. He couldn't be blamed for that. He obviously was open to homosexuality, if his sister wasn't proof enough of that, but John's brain was hardwired to be straight and it would take some doing to bend him around that. The best way would be to come right out and admit to being attracted to him, but he wasn't willing to risk that just yet.

John climbed out of the cab as it stopped before 221b. He patted Lestrade on the shoulder and instructed the cabbie on where to take his other passenger.

"You'll be okay?" He questioned in the kind way that he did.

"Mm." Lestrade responded. He was doing his best not to show his embarrassment and disappointment. It was for the best. He wouldn't have wanted a single kiss to turn into a shag and possibly more, after all. Nope, this goal had to be approached the hard way. Awesome.

"'Night Greg."

"Night John."

o-o-o

Sherlock watched the short blonde doctor climb out of the cab from the upstairs window. He was intoxicated, obviously, by the way he stumbled over his own feet and his key scratched at the lock on the door. He really wished John would be more careful. It was painfully obvious the DI was trying to get close to him.

"Sherlock, you're suppose to be asleep." The army man slurred and he shrugged out of his coat. He leaned against the wall and Sherlock glanced over his shoulder at him. His hair was misplaced and there was a bruise forming on his bottom lip. It wasn't from kissing, though. His lips were dry and he wasn't flushed. He must have hit the bottle against his mouth a little too hard. He smelled heavily of Lestrade's cologne, he must have been leaning on him all night.

"Can't."

"Won't." John corrected him immediately. Sherlock didn't argue. It was a little true, after all. He couldn't sleep knowing that John was out with the enemy and he wouldn't sleep without knowing whether or not something had happened. His flat mate rustled about the flat a little, doing his best to make a bit of tea to help him sleep. Even while inebriated, John was so kind and pleasant. It was impossible not to come to be attracted to him, if not very protective. Love, as it turned out, was a finicky thing and normal love was boring.

Sherlock showed his love in less than conventional ways, but it was painfully clear that they weren't getting through to his little object of affection. His cluelessness would be annoying if it weren't so endearing. He wasn't too fond of others taking up with his John, either. Mycroft was significantly easier to keep away, but Lestrade was stubborn and John seemed determined to put himself in the DI's company. He settled himself back on the couch, bringing his arms around his knees as John set the heated cup on the little cluttered coffee table. John stretched out beside him, and drooped a little.

"This isn't tea."

"Mm." John answered automatically.

"You put oatmeal in this cup, John."

"Yeah. Night, Sherlock." Well John was useless at the moment. A few more moments and the blonde man was fast asleep. Lovely, he had a cup of oatmeal and a pissed man on his couch. Sherlock nudged at him, but he was firmly unconscious. Finally, he lifted John off from the couch and managed him up the stairs to his own room. He helped him out of his jumper and shoes and left him in the bed, looking giddy and flushed. Sherlock would never understand the want for such a state of mind; foggy and smashed. While he strived for a clearer mind, people were out there doing this to themselves. No wonder they were so stupid.

John arched against the bed a little and gave the sweetest of noises before puffing his chest out letting out a long sigh. It really was unfair how aphrodisiacal he was. Sherlock offered a small sigh and retreated from the room. John would get upset with him if he stayed awake all night again. So, quietly, he trudged back downstairs and took up the space on the couch. There was an experiment in his bed. Who knew bugs existed in the house, too. He'd have to get rid of the corpse before the smell started wavering through the flat. Again.

With thoughts of John in mind, to drown out his other thoughts, he drifted back to sleep. Sleep had never come particularly easy for Sherlock, often times requiring unorthodox methods. White noise worked for a while, but he quickly learned to tune it out. Now the only way was to exhaust himself until he simply lost consciousness or; John. It had been a little strange at first. He hadn't even been trying to sleep. In fact, he'd been in the middle of a case, sitting and staring blankly at his wall of information and out of nowhere, John started, for lack of a better word, _petting _him. The next thing he knew, he was fast asleep. Some sort of psychological response, if he had to guess, but it was nice none the less. John had a strange affect on people like that.

o-o-o

Morning came and went with neither disturbed. John's mild hang over drew him to remain in bed until it mostly subsided after noon. Thankfully, things were usually calm after a case like this, and Sherlock managed to stay asleep for most of the night. He was awake before his flat mate, but remained relaxed on the couch for another three hours for John to start moving about. Instantly, he pretended to be asleep when he came down the stairs.

John checked him over, quietly of course, before going about making a late breakfast. Something simple was ideal, and sure enough, Sherlock could hear him rustling about to make toast and tea.

"I know you're awake, Sherlock." The taller male rolled over a little, as if having just awoken. Grey eyes searched over John's back. Thankfully, he wasn't one to black out after drinking. He probably didn't remember everything clearly, but he did remember, which was the only reason he didn't blame Sherlock for putting oatmeal in the tea pot; again.

"Do you want some toast?"

"Mm." He wasn't particularly hungry, but he knew John would end up force feeding him if he didn't eat now. It had been a couple days since he'd had a decent meal. Most of it was little bites here and there, and often times in the middle of talking. He had to be careful around John, the sneak. If he wasn't, the medic would shove food in his mouth when it was open, which ruined his presentation more frequently than not.

"What happened with Lestrade?"

"What do you mean?"

"You just seem to be spending a lot of time with him." He pointed out. Oak eyes peered at him from over one of those pale shoulders.

"I am allowed to have other friends."

"I don't see why."

"Because I'm not a high functioning sociopath." John explained as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. It wasn't the first time they'd had this conversation. "I need more communication than you do." He buttered the piece of toast and dropped it on Sherlock's stomach. Sherlock huffed a little, though he did get a wonderful look at that midriff.

"Eat. I need to do some shopping." He laid out his day plans. Mycroft was probably going to pick him up if he was on his own, especially if he thought Lestrade was making better progress than he was. Sherlock wasn't about to let that happen.

"I'll come with you." The consultant offered. He was rewarded with a surprised look. Shopping with John couldn't possibly be that boring. Maybe he'd find something interesting.

"Oh. Well. That would be nice." John agreed. Sherlock never wanted to go shopping, with or without him. It was a little strange, but even Sherlock needed a little time away from the house. He probably had ulterior motives, but John tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. He'd wait until later to bring up the subject of a possible stalker and/or him scaring away his dates. As he filled his empty belly, he messaged Lestrade.

_Did you get home okay? JW_

The DI had been pretty drunk if his attempt to snog him was anything to go by. John wasn't going to hold it against him, of course. With his marriage recently over and a few beers too many, it was possible that Lestrade had confused him for his ex-wife. He knew Greg had tried to mend their marriage, but she simply hadn't let it happen and it was typical for people to miss their spouses in such occasions. Lestrade probably didn't even remember it, anyways.

_Yeah. Thanks. You're so good to me, Watson. GL_

_Someone has to be. JW_

o-o-o

He was wrong. This was awful. Sherlock trudged on John's heels as he made his way through the market. It was a little disconcerting to have so many people watching him. John and his bloody blog was constantly bringing him attention he didn't want. It was the local mart, though, and most of the people already knew better than to approach him, unless they wanted their feelings hurt. It wasn't like he did it on purpose, but honestly; he just didn't care anything about them. He was less worried about girls flirting with him and more worried about them flirting with John. Though it was impossibly easy to make them scatter but it was still enraging to see John actually respond to such desperate attempts.

"Oh, sorry." Sherlock eyed the young woman as she quickly withdrew her hand from John's. He smiled pleasantly in return.

"It's fine. Last box, why don't you take it." He insisted. She smiled and brushed her hair back a little.

"I couldn't," She pestered back, touching her knees together and naturally drawing John's attention to her stocking covered knees. Whore. "But perhaps we could share it?" Of course, because the logical conclusion to this situation was to split the box of pasta in half. Sherlock glared at her over his shorter flat mate, but she didn't seem to notice. He couldn't blame her for that, at least. John's eyes were very hypnotizing. To end this conversation before it went any further, Sherlock pointedly grabbed the box in question and dropped it in John's basket.

"Come on." He purred suggestively over the other's shoulder. "You promised." In the same predictable way they always did, she glanced between them with surprised eyes before blushing and visibly backing away.

"I'm sorry. I didn't realize." She murmured quickly before hurrying away. John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Was that really necessary?"

"She was going to take forever. I want to go home." Sherlock dropped his shoulders and threw his head back a little like the man child he was.

"You know you hate shopping. Why did you come along in the first place? Also, can I just say this is the exact reason people think we're a couple." The army man pointed out prudently. It obviously wasn't working if girls kept trying to pick him up, Sherlock thought. What did he have to do to get them to understand that John was taken? He didn't know he was taken yet, but he definitely was. Sometimes it seemed the only thing that would keep them away was if he shoved his tongue down John's throat. He loved John, of course, but he wasn't entirely comfortable with the physical part. Not yet, anyways.

Sherlock simply didn't understand the need for physical release. He simply adored sitting with John and touching wasn't a problem, but sexual contact simply made no sense. Plus, the human mouth was filthy. Yeah, it was John, and probably decently clean, but the cleanest mouth was riddled with germs and he preferred to stick with his own germs. That was the 'normal' thing to do, though, and John was a normal man with normal needs. He couldn't hope to be in the running without some sort of sexual gratification. He'd run the scenario through his head a few times; confessing to John (which he would never actually do) and admitting that he didn't do the 'touching' thing (also of which he wouldn't do) and John would be okay with it and, in being John, he wouldn't push him or suggest anything or even complain. He'd treat it as a delicate subject, and that alone was endearing.

However, John would never be able to stick to it and his pent up sexual frustration would allow him to be swept up by Lestrade or Mycroft and Sherlock was not going to loss to either of them. He also had to admit, he'd never actually tried it before, and if the rest of the human population was severely overpopulated, there had to be something to it. Even so, it would be with John and strictly John. That meant a lot of research and, eventually, practice.

"To protect you from people like that, obviously."

"You came to protect me from girls?" John asked with a sour incredulous.

"Not necessarily 'girls'." Sherlock sniffed. The army man seemed to be completely ignorant to his jealously. He probably thought it was with malice intent. Sometimes he wished John would at least try to give him the benefit of the doubt. On the other hand, that did sound like something he would do to someone who wasn't John.

"For the last time, Sherlock, my life doesn't revolve around you." No, it didn't. He could understand that.

"But I'm interesting."

"Yeah. A little too interesting, sometimes."

"Is that even possible?"

o-o-o

Despite his best effort, Sherlock managed to get distracted and left John alone. Either he had impossibly good timing, or Mycroft was having a more watchful eye than he needed to be. When he turned away from the curious little store window, John was climbing into the tinted window car, groceries and all.

"This better be important." John scoffed as the car pulled up alongside him. It could only be Mycroft, and he never wanted anything good. He was slightly surprised to find the brother in person rather than his assistant.

"John," He greeted formally.

"Don't tell me Sherlock did something." It had to be especially bad if Mycroft was actually here in person. John couldn't think of anything that warranted the older Holmes' visits, but it also wouldn't be the first time Sherlock did something awful without him knowing about it.

"Not yet." Mycroft answered simply.

"Then why are you here?" Nothing against Mycroft, but he usually came with bad things, either news or cases. The older male didn't seem to show any signs of having bad news but he rarely did. Instead, he simply re-straightened his tie and gave John a one over with his grey eyes.

"Settle down. I've simply been very busy lately. I haven't any time to keep up with my brother and his successes," Though the word was obviously used loosely. "You can catch me up over a bit of lunch, yes?"

"I have groceries,"

"Someone will take care of those."

"And Sherlock-"

"I'm sure he can manage to be separate from you for a decent amount of time." Mycroft responded sourly. John's stomach growled a little, reminding him of the toast he'd eaten today and little else. After a night of booze, he could do with a decent, late or not, lunch. He nodded a little.

"That actually sounds great." The blonde man agreed with little reluctance. Knowing Mycroft, it would probably be somewhere deserted and expensive. Sometimes, however, that was just as nice as a crowded little pub or a night at home.

The little café wasn't as empty as he thought it would be, but it was still nice. Quiet and calm, though everything was with Mycroft, and the little simplistic dividers provided the perfect amount of privacy. It took John a whole of two minutes to realize that more than half, or perhaps all, of the patrons were, in fact, not customers. Sure, he didn't hold the same level of induction that the Holmes did, but he wasn't completely 'small minded' as Sherlock would like to believe. Even so, it was still nice and they weren't that obvious. He distracted himself with the lovely scent wavering in from the kitchen. He couldn't put his finger on it, but it smelled bloody amazing.

"He was well behaved while we were talking to her children. I was a little surprised." John explained as he glanced over the menu. Sometimes it was hard to know if Mycroft was paying him any attention, but as far as he was concerned, he was always paying attention, he simply didn't find it essential to give any kind of understanding.

"He's not usually good with, uh,"

"People."

"Basically." John admitted reluctantly. It wasn't entirely Sherlock's fault, sometimes. The rest of the time, it was. If only Sherlock could bite his tongue occasionally, people wouldn't be overcome with the desire to punch him. Of course he understood that Sherlock didn't always understand when he was in the wrong, but he couldn't possibly be that blind to socially acceptable things to say all of the time. No, he just liked to push people away.

"But, yeah. He didn't make the little girl cry and managed not to verbally assault the boy and even I wanted to do that." He murmured. Mycroft was still having a bit of trouble understanding how someone like John managed to put up with someone like Sherlock. Relationships like that simply didn't happen in real life. He was happy for his brother and was more than pleased that he had found someone that could keep him in line and for the most part, out of trouble, but things were not supposed to get romantic. It had been insanely unlikely that anything would have formed between the two, let alone Sherlock actually falling for him. Mycroft should have felt happy for him, but things like this go sour fast.

Alright, and a little bit because if anyone deserved a patient, well mannered, handsome, highly skilled man like Watson, it was him, not Sherlock. Things between John and Sherlock were simply not to be. Eventually, John would have enough of his stubborn younger brother and their friendship would turn to the rocks. If they were to start having maritals, then things would simply get increasingly worse. So, in a way, this was for Sherlock's own good, and if it just so happened to benefit them both, so be it.

"Good." It had started innocent enough. John was tending to his little brother and it was working. That meant watching them closely and carefully until he was sure things were safe. The modest military medic had never seemed untrustworthy, though stupidly brave with misplaced trust, but never dishonest, but Mycroft always took it upon himself to make sure things were going exactly as planned. He didn't exactly expect to check one of the cameras and find John beating his brother, but there really was no telling with normal people. It had been entirely possible that John was a psychopath himself, among other things his brother would have simply looked past.

That failed to be the case, though, and instead, Mycroft was met with the picture of a kind hearted, tolerant, one of a kind solider of a man. Even now, he sat so stiffly, shoulders squared up as if sitting any other way would insult him somehow. It was the perfect balance of respect and comfort. Yes, Mycroft could make him disappear off the face of the earth, cliché as it was, but he wouldn't, and one look at John told that all. Without having to look directly at him, he could see John work his tongue in his mouth as he thought.

"I would suggest the chowder."

"Is that what I smell?"

"It is." Conversation drifted in and out from being about Sherlock. It was one of the most casual conversation he'd had in days and certainly the most pleasant one. In fact, he wasn't sure he'd had an actual meal in the last three days. Between meetings, he'd done his best to make room for meals, as he always did, and rarely made them. Instead, he was left to swallow down whatever he could and hurry off again. It was a killer on his diet.

This was what he enjoyed so much. After several long grueling days of particularly brutal national emergencies, all he wanted was someone he could sit down with and have a completely non related question. He didn't have to worry about making conversation, the two men could comfortably sit in silence at this point, he didn't have to worry about John trying to talk secrets out of him, and better men than him have tried, and he didn't have to worry about being attacked, which Sherlock had shown he wasn't above doing if the occasion called for it. Just a nice little normal person lunch.

"Are you okay? You look a little stressed." He knew John hadn't phrased the question exactly how he wanted, but it was unnecessary. Of course he was stressed, he took care of a nation and occasionally more.

"Certainly, though I must say I feel better now." Mycroft offered a small smile but John only responded with an unimpressed frown.

"You should take better care of yourself, Mycroft. You're no better than Sherlock, sometimes. I'm sure things can wait while you take ten minutes to shove a sandwich in you. And have you even slept?" When was the last time he'd been scolded? Not since he was a child, surely. The older male rubbed his lower eyelid with his thumb, as if it would wipe away the bags there. He didn't have much of a response, though. He did need to take better care of himself and there was no excuse for that.

"You should go home and sleep after this."

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I will."

o-o-o

Sherlock Holmes, Gregory Lestrade, and Mycroft Holmes were all madly in love with John Watson.

And John H. Watson had no bloody idea.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

John Watson: and his Hospital Collection

Part One

Greg Lestrade: Belongs to John

Out of everything he did day to day, John never thought he would be killed by a car while he was doing the mundane task of going to his real job. It happened before he could really understand what was going on. He stepped off of the curb, at an actual intersection after looking both ways and it was his turn to walk, and he'd barely made it half way across the street before the harsh metal gill of a cab struck him hard. He'd been in worse situations, so being thrown across the street wasn't exactly a new feeling, but this wasn't the military and the ground was many times harder than he remembered it. He was aware of the sickening crack as he smashed his skull on the pavement and instantly decided that he had a concussion. Fractured skull, lots of blood, possible broken arm and he couldn't feel either of his legs, though he was hoping that was due to the bump on the head.

The car in question sped off without so much as checking if he was okay and John hoped dearly someone had gotten the license place. Unlikely, he knew, but he had bigger things to worry about at the moment. A couple of people gathered around him quickly, attempting to help him but obviously having no idea how to do that. The ringing in his ears prevented him from hearing anything they said, but he knew none of them were Sherlock. He needed someone who knew who he was. John wasn't even able to manage a name, let alone anything other than groaning, before he lost consciousness.

Three things happened after that. One; Mycroft found the drunk driver and his home. Two; Sherlock and Lestrade paid him a visit with included a lot of verbal assault and things that Lestrade would typically disapprove of. Third; the man was arrested and put in a cell where he simply disappeared never to be heard from again.

John was given priority in the hospital, with the best nurses and the best doctors and in only a day's time, he was fixed up almost like new. All the power and the money in the world couldn't instantly make his bones heal, after all. The sun was just peeking in through the blinds when he finally stirred. He groaned and immediately felt his head for any damage. Thankfully, he had a few stitches and a small bald spot, but that seemed to be all. A young woman touched his arm and it took every part of him not to accidentally smack her in the face.

"Shh," She motioned him softly. "Do you know where you are?" He glanced around a little, spotting Lestrade fast asleep in an uncomfortable chair. He was in the hospital, he knew that much. Even Sherlock wouldn't try to take him home after- uh- Actually, he had no idea what happened.

"Barts?"

"Good." She smiled. His nurse, then. He watched her replace the empty bag that he was hoping was keeping him from feeling any of the pain he knew was there. Another look over himself and he was very aware of the broken bones in his right hand. He was very glad for his ambidexterity. It looked like his knee was fractured; now he really did have a reason to limp, but overall, the injury was minimum. They'd done a good job, if he did say so himself.

"Do you know what year it is?"

"Two thousand, eleven."

"Very good. And you're friend over there?"

"That's DI Lestrade."

"Perfect." The little nurse touched the side of his head, examining the wound under the bandages. He flinched a little as it was touched, but allowed her to do her job. "There doesn't seem to be any permanent damage. You may feel a little nauseous, a little bit of memory loss, dizziness," Despite knowing all these things, John didn't bother to stop her. It was best to make sure he remembered, anyways.

"You just need plenty of rest. I'm your nurse May Adams. You have two more guests." She informed politely. "They've been fretting over you ever since you got here. You're very lucky to have so many good friends. I believe they stepped out for a smoke and will be back any minute now." Two? John barely expected Sherlock to be here, let alone anyone else. He wasn't even entirely sure what Greg was doing here.

"Could I get some water?"

"Of course, dear." She exited the room and Sherlock entered. Seeing John awake left him looking immediately relieved.

"John. You're awake." Which he knew meant more like 'I'm ecstatic that you're okay'. John pushed against the bed a little to sit upright, careful not to move too quickly lest his stomach flip. He smiled softly.

"Sherlock. Please tell me you've slept." It wouldn't be anything new, but John didn't want him staying awake just because he was a little hurt. Sherlock, of all people, should know he was tough enough to survive being hit by a car. On the other hand, he never wanted to do that again. The taller male sported a look of confusion and hurt.

"It's Mycroft, John." He murmured. John blinked and blinked again, and when that didn't work, he took to rubbing his fawn eyes with the fingers of his good hand. Still, his vision remained unaltered.

"Very funny, Sherlock." He scoffed back in irritation. Mycroft stepped into the room beside him and mimicked his brother look of consolation. He was at the side of the bed at once, examining his head wound in a very unlike Mycroft way. Sherlock stood to one side, lips firmly pursed.

"Those bloody doctors," The older male scoffed angrily. John humored the thought that he might be wrong.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Mycroft responded immediately. Lovely. Something was wrong in his head and he hoped it wasn't permanent. Lestrade shifted from his awkward sleeping position and happily smiled at the army man. He was okay. The smile was gone quickly, however, and he hurried to his feet. He hadn't entirely thought this through and he had no excuse as to why he'd fallen asleep in the little hospital room. Unlike the Holmes brothers, he actually required sleep to work. They were in competition with one another, but they weren't exactly going to start a fist fight in the middle of a hospital. Their waiting in the longue had been tensed and strained, mostly consisting of staring each other down vindictively, but their combined worry of John was enough to keep them from lashing at each other.

Sherlock had every reason to be here. He lived with John. Mycroft and he on the other hand, would have to scrap something together on the spot. Well, he would. Mycroft probably already had some nonsense reason that John would blindly believe because he was Mycroft. Lestrade decided that it would be best if he left. Not because he wanted to leave poor John in the hands of the Holmes, but because he wasn't sure how long the three of them could be in a room with live conversation without tearing each other apart.

"Ah. I'm glad you're okay, John."

"Which one of us is Sherlock?" The question instantly threw him off and Lestrade could only stare blankly at Mycroft. He debating asking the point of the question, but he knew that would be utterly pointless. He was a Holmes. Instead, he asked the question with an open handed motion to the man beside John's bed.

John looked distressed. On the other hand, it wouldn't be right to leave him with these two. Reasons aside, he would stick around until John insisted he leave. Hopefully, he wouldn't.

"John is having trouble distinguishing faces."

"I recognize Greg just fine." John insisted. Both brothers scowled a little, as if it was painful to acknowledge.

"We are brothers." Sherlock admitted hastily.

"And we do share some similar- features." Mycroft added.

"It's probably temporary. You just need some more rest."

"Perhaps it would be best if you two left the room." Lestrade suggested. He was met with two sharp stares. "If it's only you that he's confusing, wouldn't it be best if you didn't confuse him anymore? We wouldn't want his brain to lock onto the idea that you're each other."

"He's right." John agreed and the DI took it as a small win.

"It doesn't work like that." Sherlock scoffed. The wounded man glared at him.

"Have you even been to sleep?"

"They haven't. And they haven't eaten, either." Greg smirked pointedly. Like children who'd just been sold out to their mother, both Holmes avoided eye contact with the army man. Not that it mattered, since John's frown bored into the side of their heads like hot iron.

"Go home." He demanded. "Eat, sleep, change. I'll be fine."

"Don't worry. I'll stay with him. They're not expecting me to work today, anyways."

"Thank you, Greg. Leave." John ordered. Sherlock wanted to argue, but a single look from the blonde man sent them both on their way. So, they were perfectly alone. The perky little nurse returned with a cup of ice and a cup of water and Lestrade quietly sat beside the bed as John explained his new symptom. It was obvious they were flirting, and while it made him heatedly jealous, he knew better than to comment on it. It wasn't like John was going to jump out of bed and sleep with her. When she finally left, Lestrade moved his chair closer to the bed.

"Just let me know if you need anything." Greg promised, tenderly patting John's thigh under the thin hospital blanket.

"I'm fine, really. You can stop worrying about me."

"You were hit by a car."

"And now I'm on an IV drip. I just need some sleep, maybe some solid food, and I'll be fine. You're going to have a crick in your back, though." John smiled his heart warming smile. The solider in him really did shine through at times like these. Even when he was hurt, he put other people before himself.

"Oh, I'll manage to survive somehow. Why don't I go grab you something from the cafeteria?"

"Ham?"

"Got it." With a final glance, Greg left the room. It was alarming for them all to having John in the hospital, since it constantly seemed as though he were invincible. To work and live with Sherlock, he practically had to be. Sure, it was amusing that Sherlock and Mycroft were the ones to be mistaken, but it wasn't funny if it meant John had brain damage. Lestrade also knew that he would dearly pay for that later, but he couldn't be worried about it now.

He was struck with the sudden realization that, in fact, John wasn't invincible. Lestrade knew that when faced with a sudden near death experience, many people turned to do stupid things and he should have thought this through a little more, but he couldn't. Thinking was an awful thing for normal people. Thinking led to doubting and doubting led to not doing a damn thing. Lestrade had decided a long time ago, approximately the same time he met Sherlock, that he would rather fall on his face than live in the shadows. It was actions like these, however, that led to things like the marriage of his wife and the divorce of a woman he no longer knew. He would have never known unless he tried and just because the first time he jumped he fell, didn't mean it would happen again.

After all, what was flying besides throwing yourself at the ground and missing?

When he returned to the room, thankfully John was still awake. He was working desperate to scratch under his cast and by the looks of it, was failing horribly. The humor of the situation put Lestrade a little more at ease. He chuckled and John sent him a fake look of hurt.

"Let me help you." Lestrade took the straw from the tray he brought up and took John's hand in his own. He shifted it around carefully, as if the man's arm would break within the cast if he wasn't careful, and used the bit of plastic to scratch at the itch underneath. John let out a heavy sigh and an expression that was far too orgasmic to be brought on by an itch alone.

"Oh god, thank you." He breathed happily. Lestrade only offered another small laugh. He played with John's fingers in his hand, wondering if he could even feel his fingers. He could, apparently, and the pale digits curled up like an anemone. Lestrade pressed one of his calloused thumbs into his palm and the flower opened again.

"John,"

"That actually really hurts." The DI pulled his hand away immediately.

"Sorry." Not how he wanted this conversation to start. He sucked in a bit of a breath, realizing exactly how close John was watching him. Was it that obvious? Of course it was, he was a bloody open book and now he was holding up a magnifying glass so John could read.

"I- uh," Lestrade began awkwardly. "I love you, John Watson."

The silence was more deafening than a rejection could ever be. Pale hazel eyes stared at him with a mixture of confusion and search. It wasn't until he heard himself say it did the idea really come to life, that his heart flipped, and that he realized how much of an open ended statement it really was.

"I'm serious. I- I wouldn't even know how to begin this. I'm sorry. I know I kind of sprung this on you, seeing as you can't run away and all," John didn't humor him with a chuckle. "It's just, one day you might not wake up. One day, I might not wake up. And, I'm too old to be cradling my feelings away." More unwavering silence. Here came the ground. The impending doom wracked his chest with the smallest of trembles. He was really glad Sherlock wasn't here to point them out. After several seemingly endless minutes of trying not to break eye contact with the medic, John spoke.

"I have to think about this." For fuck's sake, now he had to carrying around the anxiety in his chest. He supposed it was better than 'no', or what he was expecting; 'I'm straight'. Better, but just barely. At least Lestrade knew it wasn't a definite rejection. He wasn't completely appalled by the idea. He squeezed John's wrist softly and nodded.

"Course. I'll just –uh. I'll just be off, then." Lestrade tugged at his cuffs a little, though it didn't make his wrinkled shirt look any better. "I'm still coming back. Don't want Sherlock trying to take advantage of you while you're hurt. We don't need him trying any experiments with morphine." He scoffed, but John only forced a smile. He couldn't pay attention to Lestrade's words, he was too disoriented.

Greg loved him. Him. Past the confusion, John saw how evident it was. He didn't mistake him for his wife, he'd just been drunk enough to throw caution to the window and John had instantly pushed him away. For good reason, of course, but now he could only think of what it would feel like to have the DI's lips on his own. He would admit it wasn't a terrible thought. John was barely aware when the man quietly left the little white room.

The very idea that kissing Greg might be pleasurable led him to actually consider it. There was actually some water to it. Lestrade was so use to dealing with Sherlock that it was unlikely he would actually feel threatened by him, as occasionally his girlfriends tended to be, and the DI wasn't going to go running after a couple dates. Beyond even that, he knew Lestrade to be a great man, even though the qualities he looked for in a woman were different than what was to be found in a man. If he was sincere with himself, he'd never actually thought of being gay and therefore didn't actually know if he was straight. To be fair, he loved women, but it was entirely possible to be attracted to both sexes.

It was a little strange trying to think of Lestrade as attractive from a romantically point of view. John's mind immediately tried to sort them into who was the 'boyfriend' and who was the 'girlfriend' and failed miserably. This was a lot to think about

Part Two

Sherlock Holmes: knows you Don't Sound Like Him

He was going to make Lestrade thoroughly pay. If anyone deserved to be at John's side at a time like this, it was him. Who knew what Lestrade would do? He couldn't argue with John and the thought that the little man thought he was his brother was entirely too aggravating. He looked nothing like Mycroft! Sherlock trudged home with his hands in his pockets and his scarf bundled up around his neck to protect him from the cold morning. He didn't plan on eating and he was positive he couldn't fathom the idea of sleep at the moment, but he would try. There was little else to do and if he returned to the hospital too quickly, John would be suspicious.

Mrs. Hudson was fretting, of course, and he brushed her away without a thought. John was going to be perfectly fine. It wasn't like he'd been shot again. The army man was hardy and if he had anything to do with it, John wasn't about to meet his fate at the front of some drunk. Even though he'd taken care of the stupid man the day before, he couldn't feel at ease just yet. John was still bed bound and confused and it felt strange to return home without John. Sure, he'd been in the flat a lot of times without John, but this time it was different.

After some violent poking around in the kitchen, and generally making more of a mess than he needed, Sherlock decided that he wasn't hungry at all. Still, he managed down a bite of food to prevent his stomach from growling at inappropriate times before taking to the couch. He'd gotten the corpse out of his bed, but it still smelled bloody awful. He was working on a new test now, though. How to completely eradicate the smell of rotting flesh. So far; no luck.

Try as he may, he couldn't sleep. John was in the hospital. John was in the hospital alone with Lestrade. Knowing his tiny mind, he was probably panicking. While panicking was completely predictable, the actions that panicked caused were not. People that panicked did erratic, capricious things, but Sherlock knew what Lestrade would jump to. He would admit his feelings to John in some touchy feely way and not knowing what to do with them, John would just kind of gap. He wouldn't respond right away, which gave Sherlock time to convince him otherwise. He wasn't entirely sure how he would do that, however.

John was a marvel, really. Even now, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure what he would do. When it came to feelings, John's were not normal. When he was supposed to smile, he frowned. When he was supposed to be happy, he was distraught. When he was supposed to be proud, he coward. If only it were that easy, though. When he was supposed to be happy, he was. When he was suppose to be mad, he was. There weren't gears in John's head. There wasn't a proper pattern, though a pattern of some sort, surely. Sherlock couldn't describe it, but it all boiled down to he had no idea how John would react to Lestrade's confession.

He wouldn't run, no. Lestrade was a good friend and running would hurt his feelings and John wouldn't do that. He wouldn't reject him, not as harshly as he needed to. If he rejected him at all, it would be kind and Lestrade would continue to pin after him. Perhaps he would accept him. Perhaps even with open arms. John didn't show any signs of being attracted to Lestrade, not even an unconscious glance or the need to trace the spots when they touched. Would the confession make him think? Would it make his funny little mind run ideas it wouldn't normally think of? Would he like those ideas?

Before he knew it, hours had passed. It wasn't unusual for Sherlock to get lost in his own mind. Sometimes he could go through entire thoughts and only a few minutes would have passed or a single idea and hours were gone. Time did not exist in Sherlock's mind. Time was irrelevant in most circumstances. In others, it was a challenge. A proper amount of time and any problem could be solved.

He made a show of showering, making sure his hair was still a tinge wet so John wouldn't complain. He changed into a pair of clean clothes (he hoped John would be back soon since he had no idea how to work the washing machine) and pinned himself up to go back to the hospital. If Lestrade was throwing caution to the wind, then he had no choice but to do the same. If he didn't, John wouldn't even realize he had choices. He didn't like this. Lestrade had managed to force him into a corner.

If he didn't, there was ever possibility that John would go along with Lestrade and he'd never have a chance. Even Sherlock wouldn't ruin John's happiness. Maybe. It was Lestrade, though. John wouldn't be happy with him. If he did, though, he could completely ruin their friendship. Not completely, per say, but things would turn to the rocks. It would be worse than if Lestrade was rejected. He actually lived with John. It wouldn't bother him, Sherlock didn't exactly need to love John. He didn't need to be anything more than good friends, but the very idea that they could be was exciting. Like a new case on triple homicide exciting. If he was refused, then there was nothing he could do. John, however, would feel guilty and regret and he wouldn't be able to look him in the eye for weeks after which would be a pain. No worse than having to watch John and Lestrade flirt at crimes scenes, though.

These people, Lestrade and his brother and the ready of the bloody police force, they knew he wasn't like them. It was so painfully obvious, even an idiot would see it. They knew that he knew that they didn't work like him. That didn't stop them, though, the fools. They tried to force him into molds, to make him like them and Sherlock hated it. Under most circumstances, it was impossible to force him to do anything he didn't want to do, but Lestrade had managed it. God he had managed it and for that, he was brilliant.

Sherlock trotted off to the hospital, shaking off the cold from the back of his neck and tugging on his scarf the whole time. He was pleased to see that John was alone in his little room. He was sleeping, but uncomfortably by the looks of it. He was right, then, Lestrade had confessed and now John was anxious. As he sat on John's good side, the man stirred away.

"John,"

"Sherlock?" A quick glance at the clock assured him that the afternoon was upon them.

"Good. I thought you might actually see me as Mycroft for the rest of ever." Sherlock complained. John could only offer a mild smile. At least there wasn't anything wrong with him. He was right. Sleep solved everyone. Now if only he could get Sherlock to sleep a little more.

"Did you eat?" He pestered on. He debating telling the taller male about what had happened, but instantly decided that was an awful idea. Sherlock would never let up on poor Lestrade. Not that he couldn't deal with this on his own. In fact, it wasn't any of his business, anyways and if Sherlock, indeed, was scaring away his dates, he wouldn't frighten off Lestrade.

"Yes." Sherlock whined.

"Did you eat or did you swallow a couple olives and call it a meal."

"Technically that is eating, John." He insisted. John glared at him. He pushed himself up gently, still relatively painless thanks to the drip. He unwrapped the other half of the sandwich he couldn't stomach earlier and handed it over. Sherlock frowned.

"Eat it." With a pout, he reluctantly ate. There was silence and silence was always nice. It was the good kind of silence, too, the kind Sherlock didn't have to think to. His stomach settled a little as he ate and watched John think. He was thinking of Lestrade, obviously, unconsciously eyeing the coat he'd left behind. The optimal time was now.

"John,"

"Mm?"

"The unyielding attraction I feel for you exceeds that of normal friendship."

"Pardon?"

"Don't be thick. I viehhm you." The sociopath murmured out around another bite of meat and bread.

"What?"

Sherlock sighed.

"I, Sherlock Holmes, am in love with you." John couldn't walk like him, but he was the only one that could keep up with him.

Part Three

Mycroft Holmes: is Self Sufficient

This was some sort of joke. Sherlock knew Lestrade had confessed and now he was mocking him. Lestrade wasn't around, though, why would he be mocking him? That wasn't it, then. He was jealous. Not romantically, but because he thought dating Lestrade would mean less time with him. He was just a man child, that was all. John, for the second time today, had no idea what to say. Sherlock just looked so serious, though by now he well knew that Sherlock lied. Was it was false face? He had no way of telling.

"Sherlock," He hadn't even decided if he was going to do anything about Lestrade. Was Sherlock actually trying to help him? With all the time he spent with Sherlock, he was finding it harder and harder to have simple thoughts. There was anyways something more with Sherlock. He was so complex and every time he thought he had pieced something together, Sherlock had to go and change again. He was never bored.

"Don't belittle this, John. I know Lestrade must have confessed earlier, and you're probably thinking that this has something to do with that and it does, but not in the way you think it does. In fact, since your tiny little mind can't grasp it,"

"And this started out so nicely."

"We both share similar feelings regarding you, along with, well," Sherlock ran the three way chess game in his mind before deciding that Mycroft knew what was going on and would be here in person soon enough. "Mycroft,"

"Mycroft?" John repeated with disbelief.

"He'll be here to tell you himself, considering he needs to stay in the game." The taller male smirked suddenly. "Mycroft hates games." John was in shock, obviously. Shock and confusion, which Sherlock didn't predict. John believed him. He was telling the truth, of course, but most people would doubt him at least for a little, it was a natural response to everything he said. Not John, though. Never John. It was hard, though, knowing that John trusted him. A sociopath, high functioning or otherwise, was still a sociopath and Sherlock could wreak all kind of havoc with John's trust and John knew that. Unfortunately, Sherlock's heart was not as cold as his mind and the silly little thing fluttered in his chest.

A ring broke them both from their thoughts. John glanced toward the little side table where his things sat, waiting for him to get better. Hesitantly, he picked it up. He didn't need the number to know who it was. 'Blocked' usually meant one of two people and he wasn't expecting a call from the other.

"Hello?"

"Hullo!" Wait. What?

Part Three

Mycroft Holmes: is Self Sufficient

Jim Moriarty: is Carrying on as he Always Does(?)

"I don't-" Of course, he could expect a confession from the consulting criminal as well. At this point, John hoped it was a death threat instead.

"Shh little Doctor. Don't tell Sherlock. I know you were expecting a call from Mycroft, I'm sure he'll keep trying." The man giggled on the other end and John averted his eyes away from Sherlock. The man could read him like an open book, it was likely that he already knew it wasn't his brother.

"You seem to have something of mine, Doctor Doctor, but I'm not sure if I want it back." Jim purred with a sickening sweet voice. "My, my, my, you're just such the little prize today, aren't you? Both the Holmes and the poor little DI. Just think, I could kidnap you and pin them all where they stand. Wouldn't that just be awful and there's nothing you can do about it." John wasn't sure what to say. If this was true, if they really did love him, than Moriarty was completely right.

"John," Sherlock was catching on.

"Even if you turn them down, that won't stop them. This will go hilarious with or without me, but that wouldn't be as fun for me. I've changed my mind. I want it back. Give it to me, or I'll make you dance." The tone sank suddenly into viciousness and John's heart firmed.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Give it back!" The voice crackled over the room and Sherlock snatched the phone away from him instantly.

"Moriarty. What do you want?"

"I want it back!" The dropped dead and pale blue eyes turned back to John. The blonde man's heart thummered away anxiously. He grasped at the little objects that had been on his person when he was brought into the hospital, but he found nothing. Some money, his ID, his phone, nothing. Whatever it was Jim wanted, he didn't have and that was many times more dangerous than actually having it. If this day got any more stressful, he might just be at risk for a heart attack.

"He's insane." Sherlock murmured. John only nodded in agreement. He was trying to insist that Moriarty might just be playing with them, which was possible. He didn't want to take that risk, even if he had no idea what he could do to prevent it. He didn't have anything! The phone buzzed again, but Sherlock simply handed it over. John nearly refused to answer it. No more problems. He hadn't even dealt with the ones he had. The number was recognizable this time, thankfully.

Part Four

Mycroft Holmes: is Self Sufficient

"I will protect you, John." John wasn't sure if it was better or worse than a confession. He could hear it in his voice, soaking in every word without having to actually say it. It was worse. Much, much worse. Moriarty was right, after all. He was in every girl's (and some guy's) dream place and John wanted none of it.

He was stressed out. Mycroft could hear it over the phone. He knew it. This was too much for poor little John. That wasn't a surprise. Even the strongest man faltered in the face of love and someone as loyal and gentle as John had no chance. This was going to turn against them and bite them each in the ass. There was nothing he could do, though. Even if he wanted to save John a little trouble, Sherlock had already made his choice for him. His brother would never understand how fragile the mind was, not when he treated his own how he did. He didn't realize John wasn't like him.

"You have nothing to worry about." He tried to persist gently.

"I want you to leave me alone." John said firmly. "All of you. Tell Lestrade. I don't want to see you. I don't want to see any of you. I have to- I have to think. As long as I'm in the hospital, I don't want any of you anywhere near me."

"If that's what you want." Mycroft sighed patiently and John hung up. It was a little disappointing, but he wasn't complaining. Time was a good thing. Time meant he was thinking, debating, and making logical conclusions and Mycroft would accept his decision whatever it was.

"Sir," The young woman glanced away from her mobile a little.

"Hm?"

"You're eating again."

"So I am. My next meeting?"

"Five minutes ago."


	3. Collective Effort

Everybody Loves John Watson

Collective Effort

John Watson: is Not Happy With Us

John had searched his hospital room twice over and found nothing that Moriarty could possibly be after. His stress was building up to be something awful. He had to think about his newly found little fan club and Moriarty wanting something he didn't have. It would have been fine if it had simply been Lestrade. John would have been pleased if it was just Sherlock. Hell, John would have at least given Mycroft a chance if it had just been him, but that was far from his choices. Why any of them were interested in him was far beyond the little army man. The obvious answer was to say no and call it over with. He could think of so many reasons not to do that.

He had to handle this situation with the utter most caution. There were pros and cons to each of them, of course, and John had finally been forced to actually make the list on paper. He needed more paper. Sherlock was the obvious choice, but much more dangerous than the others. Sherlock needed him the most but with the possibility of failure, would lose the most. Mycroft was safe. He could imagine things would be simple and quiet with Mycroft and if things didn't work out, there wouldn't be a fuss. Lestrade was normal. He was just another man and John could get use to that idea. A breakup would mean tense meetings but little else.

However, John had to think about the results of turning down the others, too. The brothers would fight, more so than they did already, but it wouldn't be particularly dangerous. Lestrade, on the other hand, would be in constant danger. That was if John was even considering this. Was he? It wasn't entirely fair not to. It wasn't fair to do this to him in the first place! This wasn't his fault. He had nothing to feel bad about. He was straight and they should expect rejection.

However, John couldn't. Well, he couldn't flat out. Was there really any harm in at least giving one of them a chance? Yes. There was a lot of harm in it. The world would possibly end; his mind told him. Then why on earth was he still thinking about this?

o-o-o

"This is your fault, you know." Sherlock grumbled. If anyone were to ask, excuses would be made up on the spot. They were working on a case and Mycroft was obviously there to give a hand considering John was still in the hospital and Sherlock could not properly work without someone keeping him on the right track. The real reason they were all in the living room of 221b Baker Street was to discuss John Watson. It was painfully obvious that the blonde man was not capable of making this decision himself, no matter how much Lestrade insisted that it wasn't okay to make the choice for him.

"Right. I made him mad. I'm so well known for doing that." Lestrade responded sarcastically. He could do with a beer right about now. They remained at a proper distance from one another with Mycroft firmly stationed before the fireplace, Sherlock puffed up on the couch, and Lestrade leaned against the cluttered dining room table. Had these been any other men, it was likely that the evening would have been in a fist fight already. Sure enough, the Holmes did not fist fight. At least, Lestrade couldn't imagine they did. If this went on much longer, he was going to find out. Often times he felt the need to punch Sherlock. Hell, he felt the need to punch Mycroft and his smug silence sat up so proper. His confidence was eerie and by par, made Lestrade feel very unconfident.

He was sure he had nothing to worry about. The only thing Mycroft had on him was a bit of age and he couldn't imagine the older Holmes was that much younger than him. He might have even been a year or two _older _than him. It was hard to tell with the Holmes. Not that it mattered. They were Holmes. Cold, distant, calculating _creatures_. Hardly people at all. The very fact they could be actually _attracted _to someone was amazing, let alone think they could _love_ him. Sherlock was easy enough to explain; he was a child. He didn't want to give John to anyone else and that was why he kept chasing away his girlfriends. Well, most of his girlfriends. Lestrade might have had a hand in one or two of them. Mycroft was a little harder to explain. Lestrade had no idea what he wanted with his army doctor. Perhaps simply to keep him away from his brother?

"We can solve this like adults." Mycroft stated as if he were attempting to gain control of the situation which instantly made the other two weary of his intentions.

"I'm not sure Sherlock counts as an adult." Lestrade murmured. Sherlock gave him a nasty look.

"Be that as it may, we cannot expect John to make a proper decision. He is too kind hearted to choose now that we've been forced,"

"_Thank you_, Lestrade."

"To confess at an emotional distressing time. I believe we should give him the chance to weight his opinions until he does decide." The man explained as if it were the most casual thing in the world. Sherlock instantly looked put off.

"Wait," Surely he couldn't be suggesting.

"John would never agree to that."

"Wait. Are you really suggesting that we _all_ go out with him?" That sounded like a bloody awful idea. It was a bloody awful idea!

"We have asked him to rather fly blind. I find it very unlikely that any of us would care to be judged based on our," Mycroft paused, as if to search for a more elegant word. "Attempts to _woo_ him." A moment of grim silence weaved through the room. No. Lestrade didn't want that at all. He'd made a downright fool of himself on several occasions, though John never seemed to notice. Sherlock sure noticed. Not that Sherlock didn't have his own fair share of crime scene flirting failures.

"So what? Now we're a dating game?"

"Potentially." Mycroft nodded. Lestrade had no idea how he could be treating this so calmly. He shook his head, though he wasn't entirely sure what he was trying to communicate with it.

"I agree with Sherlock. John will never go for it." He wouldn't refuse it himself, knowing well the brothers would take any argument as a forfeit. It wouldn't be that easy for them. Mycroft was right, though. John wouldn't simply choose and while he wasn't entirely on board with this idea in any way, shape, or form, he didn't exactly have a better idea. The best he could do was keep his footing and hope that he had the advantage in this situation. As far as work was concerned, yes, the Holmes usually a few steps ahead of him. Lestrade was fantastic at his job and as much as people tried to insist that he would be useless without Sherlock, it wasn't true. Sherlock took the stress off his shoulders sometimes, sure, and he was insanely accurate about it, but there was more than 'interesting' murder cases to being a detective inspector. He had feelings. He actually cared about what happened to those people and their families and sometimes, yes, it was even painful to watch.

Sherlock was socially inept and even more so, could barely make heads or tails of John's emotions as it was. Even 'high functioning sociopath's had trouble noticing minute difference in facial emotions. As for Mycroft, Lestrade couldn't imagine he would be much different. Perhaps he could pretend to be a real person in public, if he was ever in public, but there was no way he could actually fake his way through an emotional relationship with John. If he felt any romantically attachment to the man at all, he was probably expecting something that John was not. John was not a toy.

"He will if we ask him to." Mycroft assured them. Lestrade couldn't find any more argument. John would, after all, and he couldn't deny it. Perhaps a little explaining would be needed, and a tiny bit of convincing, but he would. Sherlock didn't look pleased at all.

"Rules." Lestrade said firmly.

"What do you mean _rules_? You can't have rules." Sherlock insisted.

"Because I _know_ you, Sherlock." The older man reminded him firmly. He'd try something sneaky, they both would actually, and Lestrade wouldn't be able to call them on it. Besides, Sherlock lived with John. There were all kinds of damage he could do. Knowing the Holmes, he'd probably wake up and find his house under quarantine.

"I agree." Mycroft eyed his brother pointedly.

"Fine." Sherlock scowled.

Rule One: Bad talking, insulting, or general lying about the other 'participants'. In fact, it would be better simply not to mention them unless completely necessary.

John frowned deeply as the three of them entered the little hospital room. He was being released today and though he hadn't contacted any of them in the last few days, it didn't keep them away. It wasn't an angry frown, it seemed, thankfully. He seemed more distraught than anything. There was no reason he shouldn't be with the three of them in the same room. Under normal circumstances Sherlock was ready to fight with any one of them. His worry swiftly turned to mistrust, and suspicious beige eyes darted between the Holmes and only on a side thought wavered to Lestrade.

"How are you feeling, John?" Mycroft asked calmly enough.

"Why?" The doctor demanded instantly.

"Because you're injured, of course, and I wanted to know if you were feeling better."

"No," John said with a tense sigh. He was definitely off the drugs now. "Why are you here?"

"Well," Sherlock began to explain. "We have a proposition." John was not comfortable with them declaring themselves as 'we'. They didn't need to have done anything, especially coming here. He hadn't made a choice yet and just because they all gathered around didn't mean he was going to right now, either. If he didn't think this out properly, bad things would happen and John wasn't going to be responsible for that.

"It's not like that." Lestrade corrected the other. "We had a thought." Still using 'we'.

"We,"

"Stop saying that." John demanded viciously. He felt threatened, obviously. A wounded, ex-army man in a small room with three very threatening men standing about his bed. Now would have been the time for them all to take a cautionary step back but none of them did. Forfeiting and all. Lestrade raised his hands a little as if it would make him less intimidating. Now wasn't the time to think it, but he couldn't help but see the smaller blonde man as a little broken hedgehog.

"Sorry. The three of us were talking and we realized that w- the three of us kind of sprung that on you and it really wasn't fair. So, if you want, it's completely up to you, you could date all of us." Lestrade hadn't realized just how stupid the idea was until it came out of his own mouth and John stared at him as if he'd just spoken in tongues. He swallowed thickly.

"What?" The blonde man responded in disbelief.

"He's saying, we would take turns taking you on dates until you decided on one of us." Sherlock added on. John's expression didn't change. Dread was filling the room like desert sand. How on earth had the Holmes talked him into this? Lestrade could applaud them for that. They were very good at getting him to do things that were so obviously bad ideas.

"It would be completely up to you, John. We're not trying to force you to do anything and it would only be until you could decide." Mycroft added on as if his voice would make a striving difference. Perhaps under normal circumstances it would, but not today. John was scolding them each, individually, with his beige eyes. There was absolutely nothing good about this idea.

"And you all came up with this together?" He finally asked. "Sherlock didn't talk you into this. God knows why he would." His point remained, though. Sherlock opened his mouth as if to put the blame off of himself, but no words left his mouth. Lestrade was impressed. He would have debated whether or not that was bad talking, but the very fact that Sherlock didn't test it was proof enough that he was serious about this.

"It wasn't my idea." He managed to correct his unsaid accusation.

"It was mine. I find it completely reasonable." Mycroft added properly. With the admission, John seemed to consider it a little bit. He adjusted himself on the bed a little, moving to get out of the simply too white and too firm bed. His chest heaved with a large sigh, but his apprehension disappeared. He glanced between the three of them again, catching each of their eyes in a firm, questioning glance.

"And you're all okay with it?"

"Not really, but I'd rather share you than give up." Lestrade admittedly with a single nod. It was absolutely true, no matter how much he didn't want to admit it. If he had to, then yes, he would fight for John. He would fight for John and he would win. Not that John was an object, but that was why he was being very careful not to say things like that out loud. That would earn him absolutely no points.

"Only if you haven't made a choice yet." What Sherlock really meant was 'only if you haven't chosen me yet'. He was the obvious choice, after all. They were practically in a relationship already, just without the romantic actions. He could start cuddling better. He would have to look up the proper way of dating, however, and make some minute changes.

"If it's the only way, then absolutely." Mycroft nodded politely, but his lips insisted that he preferred to do it any other way but like this. Maybe violence was the answer just this one time. He knew better than most people that sometimes violence was the only answer, but he was trying to handle this appropriately seeing as it meant his brother would have hurt feelings and John spent most of his time with Sherlock.

"Alright. Fine." John agreed, holding his cast with his good arm as he pushed himself out of the bed. "If that's what you want, fine." He expected this to be awful, but he could see the advantages of it. He would be able to make up his mind faster. As long as things didn't be too physical too fast, everything would be fine. Plus, this way there wouldn't be any more 'we'. Mycroft wouldn't have to hang around, and Lestrade and Sherlock wouldn't interact anymore than they had before. He was impressed they'd came up with a solution together. They were very useful when they actually worked together instead of fought with each other.

Rule Two: Dates will happen in the following order: Lestrade, Sherlock, Mycroft. Everyone has exactly one week to claim their date otherwise it is forfeited to the next. A 'date' is as defined: a meal or activity shared intimately. 'Intimately' is as followed: romantically touching, casual conversation, and flirting. John does not need to be asked for it to be a date.

Rule Three: Price of said dates will not exceed the agreed amount. Gift value will not exceed the agreed amount.

Lesrade, seeing as he had confessed first, was awarded with the first date. He had to wait for John to get his cast off, but he was okay with that. It had given him time to think and plan what exactly he was going to do. He couldn't treat this like any relationship he'd had before, considering he'd been mostly straight up until this point in his life. Mostly because he'd been married to his wife up until now. He'd spent some time researching it, or rather, he'd tried. He wasn't good with technology and in the end, had to ask for some advice from less than reputable sources. Sally still giggled at him when given the chance and Anderson had plainly walked away. He had other friends, sure, but they weren't helpful, either. He was on his own with this.

Flowers were definitely a no. He'd made reservations at a nice place, though not overly expensive and still very casual. Then he planned on a bit of dessert and a nice walk through the park. It wasn't overly fancy and he certainly wasn't beyond his limit. He didn't want to look like he was trying too hard, either. John would actually notice now meaning it wasn't the time to fall on his face. He dressed up nice (but not overly nice) and even dug out his timberwolf grey tie that matched the color weaving in and out of his black hair. He wasn't getting old. It was stress. He'd had a full head of black hair (give or take some) before he met Sherlock and started working as a DI and began having troubles with his wife. Regardless, he thought it made him look very distinguished looking. He already knew he was quite a bit older than John, but they were both full grown men. His hair wasn't something he was going to worry about.

He picked John up just as the sun was going down and the sky was the sweet color of pale pink. He knew Sherlock was glaring at him from the window, but not even Sherlock could make him chance his mind now. He faced down criminals and murderers, he could face one simply date without making a fool of himself. He met John at the door, smiling happily. He was excited, though he was sure he was hiding it well. John smiled back.

"You look fantastic." The older gentlemen commented. Lestrade wasn't sure he'd ever seen John out of his usual jumper, but he looked fantastic in his waistcoat.

"I haven't worn this thing in so long." John chuckled, but his discomfort was evident. He was still unsure about their proposition. At least, Lestrade hoped that was it. If it was him, he might as well throw in the towel not.

"You look great too. I've never seen you out of your work clothes." He swiftly bounced the compliment back. Lestrade was at a loss of how to bring him along. Grabbing his hand seemed a little too childish, but grabbing him by the arm seemed every forceful. In the end, he opted to rest an open palm gently on John's back and lead him to the car. There would be no discussing Sherlock tonight and that he had planned for. He'd thought about bringing note cards, but on the off chance John found them, it would be hard to explain. He wasn't a kid anymore, even if being on an actual date with John made him feel like one again.

He was very careful to avoid any conversation that would lead to Sherlock. It wasn't too hard and after John realized what he was doing, it became even easier. They arrived at the restaurant and managed through with only minimum amount of head bashing. Lestrade was use to being very chivalrous towards his dates, which was not a bad thing, but so was John. He was glad for that. It meant John was actually considering this a real date. It wasn't serious and they laughed with each other soft heartedly.

"Sorry. I keep thinking- never mind." John waved it off with a single hand as positioned himself more comfortably in the seat beside his date. He was John's date. Lestrade would never tire of saying that.

"I know. Don't worry. I'm new at this, too." The restaurant was buzzing with noise and a little music, but it was still nice and crisp without being overboard. He was happy with his choice. They could talk freely and the food was good.

"If you don't mind me asking, why exactly are you-" John hesitated, as if he didn't know the proper way to ask his question. Lestrade knew what the question was.

"Attracted to you?" He finished. The other nodded. "Well," Lestrade wasn't sure how to answer the improperly asked question. "Because you're brilliant."

"Sherlock's brilliant."

"You're definitely brilliant, John. Sherlock's brilliant, too, but in a different way. Sherlock is incredible and amazing in his own way, yes, but you- you're a man of action and warmth." He smiled a little. "You remind me of the little army men I use to play with. I always imagined them to be brave, but kind, and strong, but polite. The kind of people who always knew who to protect and always did the right thing, even if people weren't sure why they did some of the things they did. I don't know why you stay with Sherlock, but I'm glad you do. He needs someone like you to keep him on the right track." He placed his hand on the back of John's softly.

"There's so much more than that, too. I really hate to say this out loud, but you're adorable and kind and attractive and smart and funny and if I could just have the chance to make you happy, I would try so hard, John. I really would." He confessed. At first, he felt proud with himself. It was about time John knew. However, the longer John went without responding, the more fright tugged on his heart. He'd said too much.

"I hope you know, I really am considering you, Greg." John admitted. "I've never actually been attracted to a man before, but I would never just reject you because of that. I don't want you to think this is a pity date." That was good to know! Lestrade hadn't thought of that, however, which worried him a little, but it was still good to know.

"Thank you." That did mean a lot to him. He knew he had no reason to think that John would even consider such a thing as to date him, so Lestrade was happy to hear that he wasn't completely against the idea. Dinner went perfectly and Lestrade discovered that they were rarely short of conversation whether it was about sports, or tell old school stories, or even giggling unmanly after one too many drinks. Not drunk in the least, but loosened up. They split the bill down the middle with no need to debate it and followed it up with a visit to a little creamery. The walk was short and they traveled arm in arm down to the park in the bustling dark of London streets. Thankfully, the park wasn't considered 'night life' and they were mostly alone.

Lestrade was content. He was afraid things would be awkward with his new confession, but John was acting as he always did, only with much more touching. He could get use to the touching. They finally crashed on a curved bench, shoulders pressed together as if to hold one another up.

"This is delicious."

"It's my secret weapon."

"Oh. Is it? The mighty Gregory has a secret weapon for dating his wife?"

"Of course. When she got into bad moods, I'd just bring her here. Well, until she started blaming me for her weight gain." John busted out in laughter and Lestrade joined him. The cold treat was finished and laughter soothed into relaxation. It wasn't particularly cold, but they remained huddled together on the bench, hands tied gingerly together between them courtesy of Lestrade. The city lights made it impossible to see the stars, but the silhouette of the trees against the moon was just as nice.

"I guess we should head back soon." The older man mused.

"It's getting late." John agreed. Neither of them moved for a few minutes longer, though, simply enjoying the quiet. It was soothing and sharing it with John just made it better. Finally, he looked down and squeezed the hand in his own. Champagne eyes met glaucous blue. Several stressed moments lead to John getting impatient and taking it upon himself to brush their lips together. Lestrade knew what he had wanted to achieve with this date and he was absolutely sure he had. He deserved this kiss and enjoyed ever tender second of it.

Rule Four: Interfering with dates in progress is strictly forbidden.

Rule Five: Intercourse is forbidden. All kissing must be initiated by John. No 'marking'.

Sherlock was confident in his decision of a date. Lestrade, as he had guessed, had gone for the normal approach. Unfortunately, he was right in thinking that it would appeal to John. However, John couldn't be satisfied with normal. He wasn't sure what his brother would do considering their price set. He could imagine Mycroft trying to show off at some cheap little restaurant like Lestrade.

He'd spent a few minutes searching (and shooting down) first date ideas before deciding that they were utterly useless and boring beyond his wildest belief. John wouldn't be impressed by any of them. Sherlock would end up pulling his hair out before they were over. He scraped together something far better. It was sort of not a date, but it definitely was. He packed a bag and insisted John get dresser properly and began their date.

"You still haven't told me where we're going." John scoffed in the same way he did when Sherlock failed to tell him where the crime scene was. At least he wasn't nervous. Neither of them were, though. Sherlock still was the obvious choice and now all he had to do was make John's little brain realize that. Logic wasn't going to work, but there was no harm in playing the game like the others. He'd watched John go on dozens of dates, he knew exactly what he was doing. Sherlock glanced down both sides of the streets before taking a brisk walk in one direction. John swiftly followed.

"We're not taking a cab?"

"I doubt a cab could take us there." He doubled down an alley and when they came upon a dead end, he knocked the fire escape lose and climbed that way. The blond man watched him with confusion and Sherlock had to stop and peek over the bars.

"Come on John." He yipped. John sighed heavily and followed as he always did and always would. He continued onto the roof, brushing himself off and taking another look around. He heard John close behind, struggling with the metal stairs. He knew London perfectly and the direction they wanted was that was. Sherlock took off in a sprint and John yelped at him with more confusion. It was going to be a surprise and the man would just have to wait. It was easier to move this way and they covered far more ground than they would have walking. He had to take a few detours due to the height diffractions of the buildings, but they were never lost. The higher they got, the more nervous John was about hopping between the buildings. Sherlock would never let him fall.

Sherlock came to a stop at the edge of one of the buildings and John came up beside him, catching his breath. The taller man glanced around a little, making sure they were in the appropriate spot before chucking his bag into the window of the next building. John gaped at him, but that wasn't unusual. Sherlock leap off the building with surprising accuracy and rolled against the hard floor. A quick check assured him that it was completely safe. He'd already known that, though. The man brushed some of the glass away from the landing spot and looked up to where John stared at him stupidly.

"I'm not doing that." He yelled down at his supposed date. This was a death trap! Not a date! He'd have to explain the difference to Sherlock later.

"Come on, John! You'll be fine!" The other insisted.

"No Sherlock!"

"It's a two foot jump!"

"This is not two feet!"

"Fine. It's a two hundred and seventy foot drop, but you're not supposed to fall down there."

"That doesn't make it better, Sherlock!"

He'd come down eventually. Sherlock walked away from the window, leaving his date yelling at him to come back and solve their non-existent problem. John just needed to jump. It wasn't that hard. He opened up the pack he had brought, strewing the thick blanket over the cold ground of the abandon building floor. They were a long way up. Not the biggest building in London, but the position of it didn't need it to be. He hurriedly plated food for each of them and set up a few candles around the window. Right on right, John flung himself through the window, rolled across the floor and was momentarily disoriented. Sherlock helped him up to his feet, brushing a bit of glass off of him.

"Don't you ever make me do something like that again." John instructed, thought he didn't look any worse for it. Sherlock knew he wasn't afraid of heights and he knew John was perfectly capable of making the jump. He wouldn't willingly put him in any danger. He stepped aside, giving John the full view of the broken window.

"Wow." He breathed and Sherlock felt rewarded. "This is amazing Sherlock." From the one window where no one ever looked from, a large part of London could be seen. The sun outlined the buildings and once it was dark, the lights would shine like stars on the building and the stars would shine like stars in the sky.

"I did some experimenting and this is the only place when you can see everything." Sherlock explained, wrapping hands with the shorter male. He'd never done so romantically before, but it felt so natural to both of them. His long, slim and pale fingers fit in perfectly with John's shorter, darker ones. They stood there quietly for a few minutes as John searched over inch of the landscape, picking out places he recognized and over all simply enjoying the view. Finally, Sherlock tugged him down to the blanket. He could tell John was pleased with his ability to remember his favorite food. They enjoyed their meal in silence. It was probably one of the few times John saw Sherlock actually eat.

The best thing was, neither of them had to say anything. A good meal and a perfect view between the two of them sitting close together was a rare occasion on itself. Usually John had to make Sherlock eat and usually they only had a view of Sherlock's mess and experiments. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen Sherlock drink, either, but he obvious had no trouble with having a glass of very good wine.

"From a client." Was his only explanation. Afterwards, Sherlock brought out a small tin of sweet bread and a canteen of warm coffee. The sun fell and the sight lit up even more. The different colors of the town and the different areas created a perfect sight and from here, the stars and the clouds hovered over like a painted picture. Sherlock's mind had since wandered, however. He preferred the run here over sitting here doing absolutely nothing. This was boring. He was trying really hard not to do anything about it. That seemed to be a very bad thing to do on a first date.

"You're thinking about the case?" John knew him too well.

"Yeah." Sherlock admitted.

"What are you thinking?"

"He couldn't have made it all the way across the city, kill his wife, and be back again in such a small amount of time. Even if he was on foot and not in traffic, there's no route that would allow him enough time." He mused out loud. John wondered if Sherlock was making the routes down in the dark city in his mind. Sherlock's mind was a wonderful thing, but he couldn't imagine thinking like him.

"Well," John bounced back. "What if he did what we did?" He suggested. Sherlock turned periwinkle eyes on him immediately and he could see the man running the scenario through his mind at breakneck speed. He smiled widely.

"Don't just smile like that. Tell me."

"He didn't kill his wife. His assistant did."

"Cots? Is that the same problem?"

"Exactly. However, unlike his boss, Cots is very familiar with the art of Parkour. He could easily make it through the city, into his boss's house, kill his wife, and be back at work on time with enough time to stop and get coffee." He explained as if it were so simple. John nodded in agreement. That sounded reasonable enough.

"But why would Cots kill her?"

"Because Cots was having an affair with his boss and he wanted her out of the way. Mackineze was in on it, though. There were no signs of a break in. She wasn't killed in the kitchen, she was killed in her bed. Mackineze had to have given Cots a key. He's strong enough to strangle her, drag her from her bed. He cut her throat to cover up the bruise marks from his hands. He would have gotten rid of his clothes. They'd be incinerated by now." Sherlock frowned deeply.

"But she would have fought him, right?" John reminded him. "That's why her nails were broken. I bet he has some nasty marks. Those nails of hers would have left some peculiar marks."

"I knew it. Those claw marks weren't from a cat. He doesn't have a cat." Sherlock was already typing away at his phone, alerting Lestrade to his conclusion. John chuckled softly to himself. A date with Sherlock wouldn't be too different from normal day, after all. Still, it had been nice.

"What about Mackineze?"

"What about Mackineze?"

"He helped plan the murder of his wife, Sherlock. That's not okay." He was reminded sharply. Sherlock didn't see why, since he hadn't actually done anything, but he wasn't about to argue with him. John was usually right in these situations.

"He'll have to confess. I'll leave that to Lestrade." Lestrade was very good at that part, at least, and Sherlock would respect that.

"Can you stop thinking about the case now? We are supposed to be on a date."

"John, I have no idea what else I should do." He'd hit all of John's sweet spots; a bit of danger and adventure, a creative spot where he could relax, and his favorite meal. The solving of the case was just a little extra sweet. The date was over now, wasn't it? John grabbed his scarf firmly, pulling him close and their lips met. Sherlock wasn't sure what to do with himself besides think. He'd never been kissed like this before. The first thing he noticed; John's lips were rough and cracked, but not completely unpleasant. The second; He still tasted like sweet bread. And finally; he didn't entirely hate it. He didn't like it, but he wasn't as repulsed as he thought he would be. That would take some time to get use to. It was short, only a few seconds, and John looked at him worriedly when it was over. He had no reason to be worried. Sherlock was already aware of the physical aspects of a relationship.

"Now our date is over."

Rule Six: Informing John of the rules is forbidden.

Rule Seven: Breaking the rules will result in punishment.

Finally, it was Mycroft's turn. He was alright with going last. It gave him the upper hand. The value limit on the date made it a little more difficult than he would have liked, but he managed a way around it. He could make a proper date without the need for his power. He needed something intimate, but private. His brother had the right idea. Abandon buildings were free and Mycroft knew the location of a lot of them. However, a date with legwork was a bloody awful date. He had something better in mind. He picked John up in person, stealing him from outside his work rather than having to potential deal with Sherlock.

"Good afternoon, John." He greeted his date. "I hope you're not busy."

"Uh. No. I'm not." John offered a small, casual smile.

"Good. I'm here to take you on a date." If it weren't obvious. Mycroft would have informed him before hand, but it was unnecessary. He planned everything perfectly to fit in to John's schedule. His brother made it nearly impossible but not completely.

"Okay. I hope it doesn't involve running." He joked.

"Certainly not." Mycroft stifled back a 'good dates don't involve running'. That was much too close to insulting. "Don't fret. It's really very calm. I think you'll enjoy it." Despite John being action deprived upon his return, with Sherlock in his life, the last thing he needed was more adventure. Someone like John needed a balance of both and that was why no matter what happened, he hoped dearly that the man remained with his brother. On friendly terms, of course.

"After the day I've had, that sound fantastic."

"Oh? What happened?"

"It's nothing bad. I was just doing a lot of physicals today with kids that really didn't like me." John sighed mildly and touched a hand to his side. "Got me pretty good."

"Oh dear. I can't see why anyone wouldn't like you."

"I don't take it personally. Children usually don't like being around doctors." If there was one thing he was good at, it was sharing conversation with John. He couldn't share much himself and the other man knew that, but it wasn't a problem between them. Mycroft was not now nor would he ever be a person that shared things. It was one of the few of many reasons that he preferred not to date. After he had gotten to exactly where he wanted to be, he stopped trying to impress anyone with a pretty woman on his arm. It was unneeded now. This, of course, had nothing to do with that. John was a different kind of man. It was less about what he had and more about what he wasn't. He wasn't needy, or talkative, or prodding. He'd seen Sherlock arrive home covered in blood and John was more worried about him being hurt rather than who he might have hurt.

"Where are we going?" John brought up with sneaking suspicion.

"To a museum."

"I- really?" He sounded a little surprised. Mycroft didn't think it was that surprising.

"Do you not like museums?"

"It's not that. I haven't been to one since- since Sherlock got us shot at with the Chinese smuggling ring." He chuckled at the memory. Mycroft remembered that, took. Good lord, it was amazing his brother was still alive. Some sort of witch craft, he was sure.

"Trust me. They'll be less shooting this time. It's abandoned for the time being. Details." Mycroft assured him. It was still completely dressed up, but no one owned it. Some deaths just left parts of the world to stop and the museum happened to be one that people forgot about. Mycroft was very good at making people forget about things.

"Are you okay?" As usual, John managed to blindside him with questions that he wasn't asked often. In his business, people asked him all sorts of things, but never about his wellbeing. After all, he was not important. What he did was important and how he did it was important, but he was not. That was why it was so important to stomp out threats before they became threatening.

"Of course. Why do you ask?"

"It's a kind question." John would never admit it was because Mycroft never looked 'okay'. He primped himself a little, though it felt awkward with the older Holmes watching him the way he was. Thankfully, work hadn't worn him out too badly. He might have to start keeping a spare change of clothes if Mycroft was going to surprise every date on him.

Mycroft stepped out first and offered his hand to his date. John couldn't place where they were, but it seemed a little familiar. He was led inside with a dainty little touch. Not because he was a dainty thing, but because Mycroft had no idea how to properly touch another person. John was okay with that. The massive building was lit only by the skylight and despite what he thought, everything was kept fairly clean.

"It was really just abandoned like this?"

"Completely. It's amazing what people will not look at."

"You mean what they don't see." John turned his pale eyes away from the display to look at the more interesting Mycroft. He wasn't sure what to say. It was obvious what he was trying to say, he just didn't have a response. He saw everything, much like his brother, but he could handle it better than Sherlock could. He didn't have the same compulsions that Sherlock had. Not to mention he could prioritize.

"Sorry." The smaller male apologized. "I didn't- I don't know why I said that."

John saw. Why was that?

They walked the museum with small little stories and exchanges of all the little exhibits. When all was seen, Mycroft sat them down inside a darker part of the walk through exhibit and brought out cake. John wasn't sure where he'd been hiding it, but he supposed there was a lot Mycroft could hide on his person.

"So- your diet?" John teased gently. Mycroft held a finger to his lips.

"That's top secret, John." A small piece of cake wouldn't hurt anything. The doctor giggled softly and he couldn't help but smile. He got to walk hand in hand with John and a bit of sweets, Mycroft called it successful. He could do better, though. He glanced over the other man's face, instantly spotting his winning ticket. He reached for John's face, catching his attention instantly, but pulled back when he 'discovered' he was wearing gloves. Instead, he calmly dipped into his date and flickered his tongue against the bit of sweet cream frosting there. He pulled away and hovered a little, giving John more than enough time to make his decision.

He hesitated, but not for the reason Mycroft thought. John had noticed twice before; they weren't making the first move. That wasn't coincidence. Mycroft was much more confident in everything in general, and dating would not change it. John could taste cake and the after taste of tobacco on his tongue and he momentarily wondered if he always tasted like cake. He'd certainly find out. For someone referred to as the 'Ice Man', his kiss was warm and all too natural.

Rule Eight: John is not property. Do not treat him as such.

Rule Nine: This is love, not war. Priorities are a must. When John is in danger, rivalries will be put aside.

John was getting more comfortable with the idea of not dating one, but three very different men. He'd been on a few dates with each of them over the last month or two, but he couldn't say he was any closer to making a choice. To be perfectly honest, he was more comfortable with all of them rather than having to pick out one of them. He wasn't a greedy man, though, and the sooner he could stop this, the better. They were all so great in their own ways, though, from Lestrade's domestic, to Sherlock's exotic, and Mycroft's formal. This 'experiment' was meant to help him pick out the better choice, but it was only assuring him of the things he already knew. They all had pros and cons and he was seeing no easy way out of this now.

His problems were worse than that. He had completely forgotten about Moriarty in the sea of doom (and cake) until he was snatched off the street by someone who wasn't Mycroft. It had been a completely surprise, giving him mere seconds to try to fight back. It wasn't nearly enough against the brute of the man and his brutish hands around his mouth and throat. He wasn't actually taken anywhere, rather pulled into a building he was passing. Instantly, he saw all the blood, specifically the blood trail leading into the kitchen.

"Oh, Doctor Watson," God John hated that voice. "Do you think I was joking?" He wouldn't have responded even if there wasn't a cigarette flavored hand over his mouth. He would have punched himself in the face. How stupid was he to forget about Moriarty?

"Give it back." Moriarty demanded. There was a spot of blood just below his ear. It made him look more threatening than the bloody knife in his hand. John still had no idea what he wanted. The knife was thrust into his face and he did his best to remain calm. He wouldn't hurt him if he still had whatever it was he wanted.

"I will take it from you." The man ground out through his teeth. He calmed himself down and ran a bloody finger over his eye and cheek and down his chin.

"This is your last warning, _John_. You have three days. Rough him up a little to make sure he remembers, Sebby." Moriarty turned to leave, but he stopped just short of the door.

"Oh. And don't tell your little boyfriends about this. We wouldn't want something bad to happen to them." He laughed as he left.

Sebastian did as he was told and John was thrown on the sidewalk outside his flat. No one noticed he'd been gone and no one saw him being 'returned'. He limped to his flat, holding his thigh and the bruise rapidly forming there. They weren't serious wounds. He had a bruise around his mouth and throat and a few others forming over his body, but none of them broke the skin.

Sherlock would assume it was Lestrade.

Mycroft would assume it was Sherlock.

Lestrade would assume it was Mycroft.

They all assumed it was from sex. Jealousy would prevent them from asking and envy would drive them to catch up over the next three days.


	4. Jealousy

Everybody Loves John Watson

Note: So much sex it's not even funny. It's pretty much the only reason I wrote this fic. For the sex. And to make John sex all the handsome people. (and I do mean all) Basically; pwp.

Now with more BigBluePudding! (many thanks)

Do Not Look Directly into Jealously Lest You Go Blind

John Watson: is Mr. Sex

Day One

He had to find out what Moriarty wanted and he had to find out fast. John unlocked the front door, leaning against the frame for support. Everything hurt. He was glad it was minimum, but he would have loved it even more if Moriarty didn't think he had something he bloody didn't. He closed the door quietly behind him, though he was sure Sherlock was awake, and began the seemingly endless trudge up the stairs. Sure enough, Sherlock was wide awake and watching him carefully from his chair. John wasn't sure how he would explain this, but he wasn't going to put anyone in danger. He knew Moriarty and he knew how far he would go and John cared too much about them to let even the smallest possibility slip through.

Instantly, Sherlock looked distraught. He should really stop thinking he could hide things from this man. Instead of demand things that he shouldn't possibly be able to know, the taller male turned away a little as if he were a child faced with undeniable facts. John grasped his neck with a discomforted groan. He'd deal with Sherlock in the morning. He needed a shower and sleep before he could even think about handling anyone. He couldn't even deal with the mess in the bathroom. For once he just wanted Sherlock to get his bloody clothes into the bloody hamper. John stripped down, groaning at every new bruise he revealed. He'd been hurt worse before, definitely, and he was lucky he got away with bruises alone.

John climbed into the tub and the warm water made his bruises ache even more. He turned the water down and took several minutes to simply not move before beginning to wash himself. His thigh hurt the most. He actually had a reason to limp now, he thought grimly. Just as he began to grope at the sore area of flesh, he heard the door open.

"Sherlock?" The man didn't respond. John leaned back a little to peek out the edge of the curtain and was met with his boyfriend partially stripped. Apparently partially was all he needed. He stepped into the shower, still in pants and his button up shirt unbuttoned and hanging loosely from his shoulders. The tub was too small for the both of them, but Sherlock didn't seem to care. He was more forceful than usual with his kiss, which surprised John. None of them ever came to him and he had to assume that there was a reason for it. Sherlock seemed upset. He pushed a hand to either of the blonde's shoulders, and John did his best not to flinch as pressure was applied to his already sore body.

"W-wait," He breathed. Sherlock did as he was told, shiny lips hovering just centimeters away from his own. John shifted his grip to splay his hands on the pale chest before him, making a sort of barrier even if he wasn't looking to push his boyfriend away.

"What's come over you, Sherlock?" John questioned, adjusting himself under the cold stream of water to relieve the pressure on his bruises. Sherlock didn't seem to notice. He frowned pointedly, but his displeasure swiftly turned to worry and his brows knitted together.

"Nothing." He answered with far too much delay for John to believe him.

"This isn't like you."

"According to sources, we're at a point in our relationship where we should 'take the next step'," Sherlock explained. He didn't attempt to steal his lips again, but rather attached his mouth to John's collar. The man flinched at initial contact, but quickly seemed to relax. His hands fell a little further to meet Sherlock's sharp hips.

"Sherlock," He began to argue again. "You don't have to-"

"I want to," Came the almost vicious response. "I've been practicing." John stopped arguing. The thought of Sherlock 'practicing' was arousing for so many reasons. He'd already come to the agreement with himself that he was, at the very least, bisexual. A straight man would not be so tempted by this situation. Or be in this situation. However, he was still just as attracted to females, even if he was in no position to date anyone at the moment. Anyone else would be the proper term, but that made him feel filthy. This wasn't his choice. He didn't exactly convince each one of them to fall madly in love with him, not that John was completely convinced of that just yet. That was what he kept telling himself, but it was hard to think otherwise with Sherlock so desperately pressed against him saying and doing very un-Sherlock things. What other explanation could he make? If this was simply a ruse to keep him away from Lestrade and Mycroft, he wouldn't have jumped to such drastic measures.

Sherlock's lips followed the bruising along his throat, leaving several of his own that hurt far less than the ones left by 'Seb'. John relaxed a little, trying to organize his jumbled thoughts to somehow respond to the tongue sinking lower on his chest. A warm mouth found a fawn nipple. Such a strange sensation it was and John gasped quietly. Sherlock's clothes were soaked through by now, as was his hair where John gently grasped. His skin jumped and he left out a small hiss as his thigh was grabbed. There was definitely something wrong with his leg. It shouldn't hurt like that, even with everything that had happened.

His mind fled completely when Sherlock's mouth found his cock. John's hand flew to his mouth, teeth sinking into his palm to prevent himself from letting out too many noises, though he'd never been very noisy.

"W-wait." This time, Sherlock did not. He had no idea how he managed to practice doing that, but it was fantastic. John trembled against the cool tile wall as the warm, velvety mouth worked him over with a precise tongue. How did he know how to do that? He groaned low in his throat, trying to find something in the tub to grab a hold of. Much to his chagrin, though, Sherlock stopped. He stood and knocked the water off with a single blow. He stepped out of the tub carefully and drew John by the wrist. Immediately, they were together again, but this time far more fierce.

John wasn't sure what came over him, nor Sherlock for that matter. Mostly Sherlock. Later, John could count this out to pent-up frustration and the violent need coming off his boyfriend. At any sign of apprehension, John was ready to reel back, but there was no sign. Sherlock's mouth attached firmly to his, his warm, tobacco flavored tongue thrust firmly against his own. Wait. Tobacco? He'd have to talk with his flatmate about that later.

Gracelessly, they stumbled through the house, loose limbs flailing out to grope at their surroundings and backs bashed against foreign objects in an attempt to make it to the bedroom. John found the edge of the bed and tripped over it. Sherlock pressed between his legs, his long fingers grasping at either side of his head and threading into his sandy-blonde, wet hair. They only finally stopped kissing when air was needed. Sherlock really, really liked kissing. The smaller man momentarily gasped for breath and his counterpart watched him with questioning approval.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Sherlock?" He asked a final time. "You don't have to do this."

"I want to." Sherlock repeated in his stubborn way. He pressed his pale pink lips against his doctor's momentarily before moving away from him and to his dresser. When Sherlock wanted something, he knew exactly how to go about getting it. He rustled through the drawer for a few seconds and returned with a small bottle and a package. He might have been determined, but the air of shyness about him was unmistakable and adorable. Not that it stayed long. Sherlock climbed onto the bed and John shifted to follow him. He nuzzled the other against the bed gently and explored the slim, but still obviously manly, body with curious hands. Sherlock's skin was just as it looked, smooth and pleasant to the touch. The slim form arched into his touch sweetly and made matching noises.

"John," He begged. John slipped his fingers into the waistband of the wet pants, gently sliding them off with ease. He ran his hands down the cool skin of his back and along his wonderful arse. Sherlock parted his legs eagerly. John's breath caught in his throat at his willingness. He drizzled the scented lubricant between his legs. He momentarily wondered why Sherlock had chosen the sweet strawberry scent. John had never done this before, but after agreeing to these circumstances, and making it very clear to himself that he would pursue at the very least one of these relationships, he'd done himself a favor and did a little research.

Sherlock, as usual, was calm and relatively quiet, but his blue eyes watched him with intensity. His eyes fluttered closed momentarily, assuring John he was doing something right. He graced the pale skin between his thighs with a single slick finger, caressing the tender flesh. Sherlock shifted himself impatiently and John took the hint. Gently, he pressed a finger against the pink ring of flesh. The man under him made a nearly nonexistent whimper that urged him on further. Sherlock sucked in a breath suddenly when John found his prostate. Being a doctor always proved to be useful when it came to Sherlock. He steadily thrust in a pair of fingers until Sherlock began moving his hips against his hand. It wasn't often John got to see Sherlock tremble.

"John," He somehow managed to demand. "John. More." He parted his legs more. John couldn't get the condom on fast enough. He nearly asked again if Sherlock was alright with this, but his pale face was fleshed with a bright red 'yes'. Sherlock brought a long leg around his thigh, pulling him closer faster.

"John," It was completely unfair that he had such a voice. It began slow and sensual as John sheathed himself in the tight, amazing heat. Sherlock groaned aloud, grasping handfuls of the sheets and delicately arching off the bed. John held his hips lovingly and gently moved with his boyfriend. Then he was reminded that Sherlock was not a tame man. His impatience shined through as he began to move his hips quicker and desperately again him.

"John!" John was forced to find a better angle and fast. Sherlock's fingers found his shoulder and his nails found his skin. He was louder than John imagined he would be and the headboard striking the wall wasn't helping at all. Most of it wasn't coherent, but what was, was definitely Sherlock.

"Fifteen millimeters to the left. My left! Yes! Mm! Yes! John!" He brought their mouths together in an intense, vicious meeting of teeth and tongue. John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's stiff cock and his thin form arched into him with need. He mewed louder obscenities. Sherlock came with his head thrown back and his throat exposed, covered in sweat and impossibly beautiful. Semen oozed over his pale stomach in thick globs as his body wracked desperately in orgasm.

"Sherlock," John breathed under all of the other's noise. Pleasured bliss blinded his senses momentarily and he loved every second of it. The room fell to the calm collection of the two men catching their breath. Sherlock was on his mouth again, gently this time but only because he was too worn-out at the moment. John discarded the bit of plastic and laid himself on the bed beside him.

"Brilliant."

"I know."

Day Two

John wasn't sure when he fell asleep, but he was awakened by mentally kicking himself in the back of the head. What the fuck was he doing? He was in danger and needed to be working on finding this stupid thing! He climbed out of the bed quietly, as to not wake Sherlock. It was the first time he'd slept properly in a couple days. He was unaware of the knowing periwinkle eyes set firmly on him as he left the room. John made himself a cup of tea, holding his forehead and face as if it would slow time for him. It didn't. He checked his phone and was reminded that he had a date with Mycroft today. There was no way he could waste anymore time.

As he began to text the man, though, he realized that he couldn't refuse, either. It was suspicious enough without what had happened last night. The last thing he needed was to give any of them a reason to be suspicious of him. He had the situation under control, at least for the next two days. Technically, there was no danger yet. Moriarty was dangerous, but as long as he found it, no one would get hurt. He could handle this. John rushed a shower just to get the smell of sex off of him. Even if it was their idea, he wasn't going to go on a date with his other boyfriend smelling of his – first boyfriend? Oh god, what was his life coming too?

John dressed in a hurry, ever single ache coming back with vengeance, not to mention the new ones from Sherlock. He was out the door before Sherlock was awake. This was probably something they needed to talk about, all things considering, but John was having a hard time scrapping everything back onto his plate right now. He would definitely talk with Sherlock later. If he was still alive when this was all over with. He stopped on the front step, holding his temple again, but for another reason: the migraine forming over every inch of his head. There was absolutely nothing that would make this anymore awesome than it already was.

Outside, a car waited for him. Thankfully, Anthea was inside, making it much easier for John to deem the ride safe. He climbed inside and as usual, she ignored him. He was too busy to attempt to be nice to her today. Mycroft wanted to have a meal in his office today before he went off to a meeting meaning he had at least seven minutes of silence to think. Whatever it was Moriarty wanted, he couldn't have had it very long before he'd been hit by the car. He'd gone shopping, as he always did, and there was nothing unusual about that. He went to work. He didn't touch anything at the crime scenes. He certainly didn't let Sherlock give him anything anymore, not after he unknowingly hid evidence by the 'hold this for a minute, John' technique. He hadn't picked up anything when he got hit and he'd been in a bed for weeks after that. There was nothing on his clothes, or in his wallet, or in the bed or drawers, and the nurses didn't know about anything else he had come in with. Of course, all three of his boyfriends had been in his room while he was unconscious, but none of them claimed to have taken anything from him while he was out. He wouldn't put it past Sherlock to have something to do with this, even if he had made it very clear about not informing him about life risks.

Anthea was watching him, John noticed offhandedly.

"What?" He really didn't need this right now.

"You're injured." She knew about the arrangement, though John wasn't sure he was okay with that. The less people that knew about this, the better. It was bad enough it sounded dirty and completely insane to him, he didn't need other people thinking it too.

"You have met Sherlock." He said firmly without actually lying. She looked unconvinced and he felt the need to argue with her silence. Thankfully, the car came to a stop and he helped himself out. John tried not to run to Mycroft's office, deciding on a brisk walk. The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could take care of his psychopath problem, and the sooner he could sort out his wadded mess of a relationship- Relationships? -Of his love life.

He paused outside the doors, making sure he didn't look too distressed, before calmly and casually entering the office. Mycroft scrutinized him instantly. Oh god, this was an awful idea. Mycroft was twice as brilliant as his brother. He would realize something was wrong immediately and it was impossible to lie to him. The older man motioned him closer and John, feigning fearlessness, approached the desk.

"Morning."

"Morning, John." Mycroft answered, though he could have been happier about it. He set his hands on John's hips and the smaller male forced himself not to flinch. It was stupid how uncomfortable the pressure he put down was. It was absolutely on purpose, though. Mycroft knew. His beige eyes fluttered closed against his will and he knew any attempt to get away with this was long gone. Maybe it wasn't all bad. Maybe he was giving Moriarty too much credit. He couldn't honestly expect to get to a consulting detective, the British Government, _and _a DI. On the other hand, he blew things up. John had the right to be worried.

He felt a hand on his neck, but it wasn't tracing the hand mark there.

"Sherlock?" It was posed as if it were suppose to be a question, but it was very plainly a statement. John felt relieve almost instantly. He was still in the safe, then. He nodded in response. It took a few seconds for him to realize that the boat he'd put himself in was no better than any other boat he currently had. Why brain! Why would you tell your boyfriend that your hickey is from your other boyfriend who happened to be his brother? Get your shit together, brain!

Mycroft murmured something that sounded like 'he shouldn't have', but it was likely it wasn't for him to hear. John knew there was no way he could explain this to his boyfriend. Any argument he had in mind sounded awful in the real world. He wasn't even sure if he needed an excuse. Technically, he was dating Sherlock, too. That sounded awful even inside his mind. He watched with a frown as Mycroft exhaled. He couldn't tell if he was calming himself down or disappointed. Mycroft brought him between his legs, John's back pressed against the edge of the oak desk.

"Are you okay?" The older asked gently. He was probably assuming that all of his bruises came from Sherlock. John couldn't tell him otherwise. Could Mycroft really think his brother was capable of something like that, though? He positioned his hands on the broad suit shoulders lovingly and nodded.

"Of course. Are you?" If John had long enough to think about it, he would have found that the sex wasn't what bothered him. Nor did the multiple relationships. What bothered him most was one, or all, of them getting hurt by any means. If Moriarty threatened him alone, he wouldn't have been stressing so bad. However, that was exactly why that wasn't the case.

Mycroft didn't answer. He shouldn't have had sex with Sherlock. That wasn't fair to Mycroft or Lestrade. John leaned away from the table and further into his boyfriend. He tilted down and touched tea flavored lips thoughtfully to the cake flavored ones. Yes, he'd come to realize, Mycroft always tasted like cake. Thankfully, he didn't seem to be too upset. He still responded thoroughly to their kiss; the elder Holmes' warm tongue confidently invading his mouth and roaming skillfully. Mycroft was a very calm and collected man through and through. He would say that any kiss from Mycroft was romantic, but that it didn't seem fitting. They were warm and calculating and he could easily make John weak in the knees with a kiss alone.

Fingers pressed into his shoulders and the base of his neck, gently working the sore flesh there. John groaned and his whole body went lax. However Mycroft was doing that, it was fantastic. He wrapped his hands around the other's neck, brushing his fingers through the almost ginger nape fondly.

"Mm." It was easy to relax around Mycroft. His lips trailed down his neck and John gladly exposed more of his throat to the sensual, open mouthed kisses. His hands fell lower, working over his lower back and hips with much more gentleness than he had originally used. John's sandy eyes closed in pleasure and he breathed heavily over the head against his chest. Mycroft's hands slipped under his shirt and followed the embossed marks where Sherlock had clawed at him the night before. His knees pinned John's thighs together, alerting him to the hard on stirring between the younger man's legs.

Brunch was out of the question now. John was actually a little relieved, becuase he wasn't sure he would have been able to stand a nice, quiet meal with his stress as high as it was. Mycroft would have definitely known something was wrong. And now he was using sex as a distraction. He was disappointed in himself, but not enough to stop, as it seemed. Mycroft's soothing fingers against his sore body were intoxicating.

John made small noises under the mouth that assaulted his collar and the fingers that were working their way under his shirt and over his chest. His noises sounded louder in the quiet room than they did the night before with Sherlock. John moved with him, helping remove his jumper. The cool air chilled his skin on contact and he shuddered softly. He latched onto Mycroft's tie, booth loosening its grip on his throat and giving him an anchor. His trousers were undone and his throbbing erection was freed from his pants. Mycroft fingers found their way down his stomach and over the length of his cock, swirling around the dripping head. John uttered more quiet gasps and pants. His head was tilted back ever so slightly, but he was aware of Mycroft's pale green eyes focused on him with smooth, seductive graces. It made John shudder by having so much attention, he wasn't use to it at all.

Mycroft slowly dragged his jeans down over his hips, his mouth following the tender line of little blonde hairs over his belly and found his unbruised hip bone. John trembled as a round, tooth outlined mark was made there. Mycroft traced it with his tongue only adding to the heat boiling under his skin. Fingers flowed further back, brushing over one of his 'reminders' and sliding under the banner of his pants. John pressed a knee on the leather covered chair, helping remove the pesky clothing, and then the other so he was straddling Mycroft's lap.

Smooth hands touched every inch of him, though this time they were more set on tracing the deep purple bruises spread out over his body. They were the worse on thighs and back where the larger man had knelt and pressed him against the floor. Then around his mouth and neck where he'd been held, and finally his chest, where he'd actually been struck. Mycroft must have thought they were from his brother and John couldn't think of a way to correct him without sounding like an awful liar or getting too close to the truth. They strayed away, thankfully, and found his arse.

John watched him open a desk drawer and retrieve lubricant. A small pin of uncertainty ran through him, but he swatted it away quickly. There was no reason to doubt Mycroft. A newly slicked hand returned between pale cheeks and John arched away slightly. He hung his head over Mycroft's shoulder and the older man lavished his neck and jaw with heated, corporal kisses. He was stroked with one hand and the other circled his virgin entrance. When he relaxed enough, a lubed finger intruded in, making John whimper.

Mycroft went leisurely and patient, steadily working more fingers into him as John trembled and moaned in his lap. He rutted against Mycroft's stiff suit, leaving a wet spot on the dark fabric, but neither man noticed. John was both thrilled and startled by the new feeling. He had experimented when he was younger, but this was completely new. Mycroft's fingers reached spots inside of him he wasn't even aware as a doctor he had.

"John," His voice just seemed to belong in the room, unlike John's. "May I?"

"Yes." John responded without any further thought required. He pressed his face into the other's collar, the material of his suit rough against his bruised face, creating an awkward arch but giving him enough room to undo Mycroft's belt and trousers with hasty hands. He was handed a condom. He was too well prepared for this, but John would over think that later. He dressed the hard cock in thin plastic and worked copious amounts of the unscented lube with both hands. Mycroft wasn't any louder than himself, but he didn't have to be to know that he was enjoying this. Hands were on his hips again, directing him with minimum amount of force to prevent anymore bruising.

Mycroft's cock was hot against his stretched hole. John's breath caught in his throat and he tightened his grip on the saturated tie, the knot firm in his palm. He lowered his hips minutely; the bell shape proved to be bigger than the fingers and John flinched. The government soothed him with a skilled touch, keeping his erection firm in his hand and his lips gentle on his neck. John steadily rocked his hips, sliding down the heated prick until his bare skin was pressed flush against Mycroft's suit.

"Are you okay?" Mycroft ran his hands over his back and butt, offering a small grind to tease every hypersensitive nerve. John let out a shuddered breath but managed a nod.

"Yeah," He breathed warmly against his boyfriend's neck. The husky need in his voice went straight to Mycroft's cock. "Fine. Just- new." John murmured as he attempted to adjust his weight on the man's lap.

"Not bad," he added swiftly, "just different." He didn't dislike it and a bit of discomfort was expected. After a few moments of allowing his body to accept the organ, his ache melted away. It pressed firmly against his sweet spot and John moved his hips to get more traction. He slid his hands over Mycroft's shoulders, giving himself some support to help him thrust against. The office filled with John's pants and Mycroft's delicate hums of pleasure.

His hips and thighs were gripped and scratched, leaving long lines in their wake. It wasn't on accident or even in the heat of their passion. It was purely to stake claim and rivals his brother's marks. Unlike Sherlock, Mycroft's marks were hidden far out of sight secretive but darker and more possessive. In the back of his mind, John noticed his boyfriend's fingers avoiding touching a patch of his skin, but he was currently too high to think anything about it.

"Mycroft," even in the middle of sex, John would never confuse his boyfriend's names. Mycroft met each down thrust in rhythm, intensifying the sensation without increasing speed or roughness.

"John." Mycroft whispered calmly, catching his lips momentarily and following through with a line of firm kisses following his collar and the web of his war wound. The coarse material of the suit against his cock drove John to work his hips faster at the edge of his orgasm. He bundled handfuls of the dark fabric between his fingers as an assortment of his muscles convulsed under the blindingly blissful orgasm. Mycroft let out a groan a little louder than the previous and he closed his eyes. Again, the office ran quiet. That was fantastic. So much for his back-up plan. If worse came to worse, John had been counting on being able to chose based on the sex. This wasn't helping.

A hand pulled him down a little by the back of his head and Mycroft's lips met his lovingly.

"I still have a meeting," he murmured.

"Oh god! Your suit." John leaned away at once, partially horrified at the mess he had left in his climax. "I'm so sorry, Mycroft."

"It's fine, I have a change." Mycroft assured him. John was sure that was true, but his suit was probably expensive. Not that this was his fault. He shared another casual kiss with the other man before beginning to clean himself off and redress.

At least the whole day hadn't been wasted. He didn't notice Mycroft watching him worriedly as he left.

Day Three

There wasn't anything here! John hadn't slept yet, though living with Sherlock, that wasn't always a strange thing. Which brought on the question, where was Sherlock? He hadn't seen him since dinner yesterday. Was he working on a case? He couldn't even remember. John had to push it out of his mind for now. He'd turned his room, and part of the flat, upside down looking for anything that Moriarty could possibly want. It was hard to distinguish with Sherlock's things, however. He probably looked over it thinking it belonged to Sherlock! Oh god. So John had to look again and again, he had ended up falling asleep without even realizing he had.

"John!" He was startled awake by his boyfriend's voice and panic sent him reeling back into the bookshelf. John threw a hand out to prevent it from toppling over and brace himself to be attacked. Sherlock came into his line of vision and he relaxed. Only for a moment, unfortunately. He scrambled to check his phone. It was already noon! He had twelve hours, give or take Moriarty's chaos, to find this thing!

"Are you okay, John?" Sherlock questioned none too gently. John mumbled something that was supposed to be an excuse but was completely illegible even to himself. He forced himself to his feet, wincing as he put too much weight on his sore leg. It wasn't his knee, but he was worried that all this stress was bringing back the phantom pain in his leg. He was almost to the point of having to use his cane again. This was different, though. He didn't 'forget' about this pain. It didn't feel like it was inside of his head, either. He wanted to claw at it until it stopped, but John knew better than to make it worse.

"Awful lie. You don't believe me. I pretend I don't know what you're talking about. Move on. Did you want something Sherlock?" John's mind was already elsewhere. He'd been checking books when he passed out, in case Sherlock really did know more about this than he was letting on. He wasn't sure Sherlock would actually use a normal hiding spot like inside a book, not to mention he still hadn't the faintest idea of what he was looking for, but John was getting desperate. He'd just have to tell Moriarty he didn't know what he was looking for. The criminal would at least have to give him more time and a description.

Who was he kidding? He was royally fucked.

"Lestrade found a body. He wants us to come take a look." Sherlock explained. He watched his boyfriend with suspicious eyes, but didn't mention John's strange behavior. On top of that, he seemed to be completely immune to the feelings that came with 'taking the next step'. John was thankful for that. He didn't have the time or patience to talk out what their relationship meant now. John had no idea _what_ their relationship meant now thanks to Mycroft.

"Oh god. Greg." He hadn't even thought about how Lestrade would react to this. The Holmes were Holmes. They handed things different than normal people did. Lestrade wasn't going to be happy with this. John massaged his temple in one hand. He would feel awful to have done this to the older man. The whole reason he'd left his wife was because she was sleeping with other men, granted the circumstances were different. He could tell Sherlock was watching him as he wandered into the bathroom to swallow a few pain relief pills. He usually had to keep them out of the house because of Sherlock and his 'experimenting', but he had to do something.

"Come on John!" Sherlock complained. John uncovered his cane from behind the hamper, and hurriedly returned to follow Sherlock out of the flat. He did his best to cover up his bruises with his coat, but marks around his mouth and cheeks were clear now. The tainted skin was shaped firmly like a hand. On closer inspection, it was obviously too big to be Sherlock's, but very close to Mycroft's. Again, he wouldn't be able to tell him any different. He was sick of having to play Moriarty's mind games.

The cab ride was quiet, though Sherlock watched him as if there was something stuck to his face. He was probably deducing that his bruises were not from where he thought they were from. He wasn't sure what he would do about it once he assured himself that they weren't from Lestrade or Mycroft. Would he even care? John wished the cab ride had been just a little bit longer. He still hadn't formulated any kind of excuse to feed to Lestrade.

Moriarty did this on purpose. These were the kinds of games he played, after all. He was trying to stress him out with clever lies John had to believe or risk endangering the people he cared about. John had no proof of that, though. If he was wrong, it wouldn't be without consequences. He attempted to remain behind Sherlock for as long as possible. It didn't work.

"Sherlock. Afternoon Jo- John? What happened to your face?" Sherlock wouldn't ask. Mycroft wouldn't ask. They would simply see. Lestrade saw different than the brilliant Holmes. All he saw was that John was hurt not how or by who or why.

"It's nothing." John said after a skip of the throat. He couldn't even blame it on running around with Sherlock, since Sherlock was here. He doubted the man would deny it, but he couldn't let Lestrade think any worse of his boyfriend.

"It's not nothing. Look at your face!" Greg insisted, stepping closer to him. John took a swift step back, but steeled himself. A tender finger traced the bruise as gently as he could without hurting him.

"Is there a body or not?" Sherlock demanded viciously.

"Did you do this, Sherlock?" If that wasn't a fighting tone, John didn't know what was. He really hoped they didn't start a fight right now. Sherlock didn't answer immediately, but rather than stare at Lestrade bitterly, he looked a little confused. It was so brief, though, that John knew he had all the information he needed to finish his deduction. On normal circumstances, that would be great, but not now. The taller man turned away and was on his phone in an instant.

"It wasn't Sherlock, don't worry about it." John insisted, grasping Lestrade's wrist mildly. The DI slipped away, entwining their fingers instead.

"You look like shit." He grumbled. It wasn't an insult, but a statement.

"Thanks." The blonde responded sarcastically.

"I'm serious, John. And your leg. What did you do to your leg?"

"Greg. Please." He begged firmly. Lestrade's worry seeped through his lips, but he stopped. Instead, he met John's height and attempted to sooth his bruise with a flirty, still a little shy, kiss. Sherlock cleared his throat sharply.

"Body's over there, Sherlock." Greg informed him just as pointedly. John was getting used to being around both of his boyfriends at the same time, but it could get very tense sometimes. He felt like he was dancing around glass whenever they were in the same room, but in reality, it was his boyfriends who had to be careful.

"Why don't you come to by flat tonight?" He suggested gently. John had picked up on the pattern long before. Sherlock, then Mycroft, then Lestrade. They seemed to have some unspoken agreement between the three of them which was the only reason this was working at all. John would have liked to be informed of these things, however. He began to refuse, but again, stopped himself. He'd searched everything he owned, he didn't have it. He was doing nothing more besides running himself ragged looking for this stupid thing. If he had to face Moriarty tomorrow, he was going to do it after a night of being with his boyfriend. He could always count on Lestrade to make him feel better. He could relax around Mycroft, but only Lestrade actually brought up this mood.

"Sure." John agreed with a faint smile, "that would be great."

"John! I need you to do your doctor thing!"

o-o-o

John had given it one more go, but in the end, had taken a few more pills and called it quits. He truly didn't believe he actually had whatever Moriarty thought he had, or was making him think he had. Surely Moriarty hadn't convinced himself he had something he was trying to convince John he didn't actually have. John's train of thought had stopped making sense hours ago, it seemed to work for Sherlock (at least what he said out loud did), but it wasn't helping John at all. He wasn't brilliant, but he could pass as manic at this point. The need to tear at his thigh to make the pain go away was growing. He wasn't crazy, he just wanted the pain to stop.

Sherlock's attention was on the new case, even if John had the sneaking feeling that the man was watching him when he wasn't looking. When he left for Lestrade's flat, Sherlock almost seemed worried. Not jealous or even upset; worried. Had he ever seen Sherlock worried? Truly worried? He must have been mistaken. John left and took a cab in the setting sun and pretended to be interested in where they were going. Lestrade's flat was familiar. He'd moved closer to the Yard when he left his wife, but John never knew where he'd lived before. He knocked twice and there was a bit of a rustle behind the door.

The door opened quickly and Lestrade smiled at him.

"Hi John."

"Hi Greg." It was just so natural. Lestrade gave him a welcoming kiss and hurriedly invited him in to the very manly bachelor flat. It was probably due to all the hours he put in at the Yard, but it didn't bother John. It wasn't any worse than the mess Sherlock made at home and this one was distinctly missing body parts and potential contaminants.

"A night in, then?" He questioned. Lestrade didn't wait for him to take his coat off rather he did it himself, making John move with him and shift his weight around to stay balanced.

"Yeah. I thought you could use a bath." There was no ulterior motive behind it and there never was. Lestrade was still juggling things he knew about his past relationships and his naturally acquired people skills. Still, John hesitated a moment. However, Lestrade was going to find out eventually and a warm, uninterrupted bath did sound nice. It was probably clean, too. He nodded and Lestrade smiled happily. The DI was really the old romantic type. Twice now he hadn't been able to stop himself from buying flowers, which John really didn't mind. He'd never been bought flowers before. That stopped, though, after John reminded him that Sherlock destroyed nice things.

He was led to the bathroom and couldn't hold back the small chuckle as he was met with candles. Romantic indeed.

"Don't laugh, I have dozens of these stupid things." Lestrade grumbled playfully as he ran the tub full of warm water. John had heard the story before. Lestrade had been planning an extravagant anniversary when he and his ex had the fight that finally broke up their marriage. So of course, he found himself in possession of things he didn't actually want or use. He suggested 'donating' them to Sherlock's experiments. John suggested he didn't lest he wanted to clean the 221B flat for the next dozen months.

The tub was filled and Lestrade left the room to fetch a lighter. John began to undress while he was out, partially hoping he'd be able to hide before the rest of his bruises were seen. It was too much to ask, as it always was. He was just undoing his trousers when his boyfriend returned. John glanced over his shoulder and watched the pained expression that came over Lestrade's face as he took in the eyeful of bruises and the much smaller scratches. He probably knew instantly that the bruises were not from either Holmes. He didn't have to 'see'. He knew neither of them would actually hurt John in such a way.

He said nothing.

John climbed into the tub. The warm water felt nice against his skin, but his pain was far from gone. Numbed by the pain pills, and momentarily soothed by the heat, but still very much there. If he clawed his leg open, maybe that would warrant getting morphine. He watched Lestrade light a few of the candles and lay the lighter beside the sink. He watched John for several long moments, eyes flickering over the marks distorted by the water.

"Are you going to get in?" John insisted.

"What?"

"It's not much of a date if you don't get in," he assured him with more than enough permission. Lestrade eyed the size of the tub, but that required grazing over John's nude form and that was all the decision he needed. He undressed and the smaller male noticed he wasn't without a few bruises of his own.

"These are from work," his boyfriend informed defensively. "After a criminal was so kind as to tackle me into a brick wall." John shifted enough to allow the taller male to slip into the tub behind him. It was a little too small, but there was nothing wrong with that. Lestrade tapped gently at either side of the tub and John leaned his head back on his shoulder gently.

"You'll have to tell me what happened eventually."

"If it helps, I didn't tell Sherlock or Mycroft, either."

"It doesn't. They probably already know." He complained without really meaning it. Lestrade was okay with not knowing. It was what gave good relationships that little spark of mystery. Preferably, 'mystery' should be more careful with his John, though. He traced John's war scar with his middle finger.

"You know, they really don't look that bad. Makes you look manlier, if that's even possible." He teased flirtatiously making John crack a smile.

"It's too bad they hurt like a bitch." He murmured back, moving to rest a hand on Lestrade's leg. He knew his boyfriend could tell the difference in his marks and probably put together the marks and scratches to know that he'd had relations with one or both of his boyfriends. Less than six hours left in today. There was no point in holding back now. Lestrade took his hand, combining their fingers and brushing his lips against the nape of his neck.

He knew the differences in his boyfriends. Sherlock was eager and intense, but downright cold when something else had his attention. Mycroft was warm and calculating, but secretive when it came to things about himself. Lestrade was loving and romantic, but clumsy when it came to how to treat John. The silver lining? If Moriarty killed him, he didn't have to choose.

"You really were fantastic today, John. I don't know what I like better; you being all professional or completely fearless." His lips were slightly colder than the heat rising from the tub, sending goose bumps over the back of his neck whenever Lestrade would breathe over the wet marks he left. The hand on his shoulder brushed along his collar and down his chest to stroke a smooth circle around his nipple.

"Greg," John breathed with a pleased tremble.

"I'm serious. You keep doing that stupid thing with your tongue when you think and I just stare. I'm surprised I can get any work done with you around. It's really not fair, making me all giddy like I'm some sort of teenager again." He continued on with more tongue and lips. Finger's roughened by work followed the small bump of his stomach and over the hickey on his hip straight to his awakening cock.

"And your arse in those trousers. Perfection." Lestrade purred. John allowed himself to be seduced by the compliments. He felt his boyfriend move under him and he climbed out of the tub. He helped John out and embraced him heatedly. Lestrade led them the short distance from the bathroom to his bedroom and crashed onto the mess of a bed simultaneously. The DI kneeled over him, resting on his forearms against the pillow on either side of the feathered blonde hair. He broke away from the kiss and examined his boyfriend's face.

"I feel like I should be asking permission." He laughed lowly, nuzzling a leg between John's.

"Who's exactly?" John teased back with a small smile. He was kissed again and Lestrade caught his lip between his teeth. He groaned pleasantly, running his hands through the older man's wet, silvery hair. Lestrade wrapped his lips around his pulse, but didn't add to his collection of bruising. He was very careful about that. Heavy hands came to rest on his waist.

"Roll over," he instructed with temptation. John submitted without worry, allowing the other to turn him onto his stomach. He wrapped his arms around the pillow at his face and curved his back into the bed slightly. It was very comfortable, actually, and he could smell his boyfriend's cologne in the material. Lestrade kissed down his neck and the center of his back, and his fingers traced the outline of his ribs. It was nice knowing that his boyfriend was very straight forward and just as happy with simple displays. His lips followed the natural arch of John's back, stopping right above his arse. Lestrade reached for his drawer in a familiar motion.

With his position on the bed, he couldn't see properly and was required to wait patiently for the sound of the cap being snapped open and the cool sensation of the slick liquid being dripped over his back and butt. It wasn't cold for very long though, being warm almost instantly on contact with his skin. John shuddered and pressed his face into the pillow.

"You're skin's so beautiful." Lestrade's fingers pressed into his lower back and his palms followed over his plump bottom. A single digit carefully pressed against his hole. John winced as it slipped inside, quickly discovering he was still very sore from yesterday's brunch. He adjusted his hips, moving to sit on his knees a little more.

"Sorry," The detective said swiftly. John shook his head to assure him it was fine. He could deal with sore and the warming lubricate helped. He was going to have to learn to time these things better. He was definitely manic to think that something like this would ever happen again.

"Just- gentle please."

"Yeah. 'Course." Though Lestrade didn't seem convinced with his excuse. John offered a small buck of the hips to get him to continue. A second hand cupped his scrotum and he moaned into the pillow. Perhaps he really was a sexual deviant. No. This was completely natural. When faced with imminent death, it was natural to rush to pass on genes. That was John's excuse and he was sticking with it. Lestrade wasn't very skilled and it was obvious. His fingers were gentle, but blindly searching. John didn't complain, but his toes curled whenever the padded fingers came close.

"Oh!" John gasped when he finally did press against it and his knees went weak. Lestrade smirked. The spot was abused repeatedly with two fingers until the smaller man was shaking and groaning into the crisp, white pillow. He arched his back into the bed and his hips into his boyfriend, all of his pain momentarily forgotten. There were lips on his neck and shoulders again and Lestrade's stiff prick rubbed between his cheeks eagerly. John reached an arm back, wrapped it around the older man's neck and exposing more of his throat for his kind lips.

"Greg." He whispered lowly, giving all the permission Lestrade needed. With one hand on his waist, he slid in painfully slow. John shakily groaned, digging one of his feet into the bed to give himself some sort of leverage.

"Does it hurt?" He murmured worriedly.

"No." John hushed back. "You can move. Please." He insisted. Lestrade nodded against his neck and the bed shifted a little as he moved. He moved slowly, but firmly, grinding against his sensitive insides and making John let out the smallest, more delicious noises. Stray hands wandered along his ribs, tracing the hidden bones, over his waist and hips and gripped him. Rather than scratches, the DI bit his nails down beyond the ability to scratch, he left little round finger impressions. They wouldn't bruise, but John would know they were there. Then they were under him, neatly pressed between his heated skin and the cotton sheets.

"Greg," John whimpered again, unable to find a grip to properly meet either force.

"John," Lestrade uttered back in a throaty voice. He stroked John in time with each thrust, momentum gently rocking the bed with the faintest little squeaks. He nudged himself onto his forearms and Lestrade's head came to rest over his shoulder, their breathe mingling. His hand sped up and he thrust a little harder when he came closer and John threw back his head. Lestrade grunted loudly in his ear and orgasm washed over them simultaneously. John basked in the sweet sensation, closing his eyes against the little light in the room. The DI rolled them over, more than happy to stay joined.

For a while, so was John, but the clock was staring him down. Two hours until tomorrow. He made an excuse that he didn't entirely remember and left Lestrade's flat for home. John didn't notice the man watching him leave worriedly from the window.

Sherlock wasn't in, yet again. John wasn't sure what he could possibly be up to in the dead of night, but there was nothing he could do about it. He limped to the bathroom, skillfully avoiding the mess in the hall. His clothes were all over the place. Not for the first time, he would have to explain to Sherlock that it wasn't okay to go through his things without permission, nor scatter them all over the house. The pain pills were wearing off and pain was coming back fiercely. John couldn't stand it anymore. He clawed at his thigh viciously, trying to sooth the spot by any means necessary even if it meant breaking his own skin. There was a bump. It wasn't bone, he knew. He stopped scratching and instead, searched the spot with his fingers. There was something under his skin!

Without thinking, John snatched up one of Sherlock's scalpels from where it certainly shouldn't have been beside the sink. Desperately, he made a cut in his own skin only about two inches long and ignored the blood that began to drip down his leg in a steady stream. He dropped the blade and used the bathroom tweezers to search out the foreign object lodged in his flesh. Of course, it wasn't bone.

It was some sort of computer part.

It was what Moriarty wanted.


	5. Brave

Everybody Loves John Watson

"Bravery is being the only one who knows you're afraid" -Franklin Jones.

Part One

John Watson: is Brave

John had no idea where the little piece had come from. However, he'd been unconscious for almost two whole days after his accident and had even been put under when they straightened up his bones during his healing period. It could have been anyone in the hospital and no one would have noticed. John had been so heavily sedated at the time that he very well could have been conscious when the small piece was put in. The small, square piece could have easily worked itself under his skin from where his knee had been cut open to mend the break and with its sharp sides, it was no wonder it had driven him crazy with pain and discomfort.

Who would do that, though? Even if they were trying to get it away from Moriarty, why him? Could it have been Sherlock? Surely Mycroft wouldn't have let him do such a thing while he was under. Unless it was Mycroft. Or both of them. He didn't want to jump to conclusions. The important part was he had it. He didn't know what it was, but he had it.

It was a computer piece, but there was no reason Moriarty would go to such lengths to get it, or anyone would go to such lengths to hide it, if there wasn't something important about it. Information was Moriarty's game so John had to guess that there was information on it that he wanted. What kind of information? Obviously something dangerous, since the mastermind criminal wouldn't want it otherwise. John eyed the piece in the security of the bathroom. A very dangerous piece of information that would cost people their lives if he wasn't very careful with it. He was in a lose-lose situation. If he didn't hand it over, he was just asking for Moriarty to do something terrible to him, his boyfriends, his friends, and even his family. If he did, however, he had no way of knowing how many people would be affected, or even killed, by what was on it. It could be one person, or it could be all of London.

If he was smart, he would hand it straight over to Mycroft and let him deal with this. This was a government problem. Unfortunately, John knew better than to trust the government, Mycroft or not. He would have to handle this himself. This would require skill, cunning, and a whole bunch of fearlessness. Thankfully, John was in possession of all of these things.

o-o-o

All rise for the second meeting of 'What The Fuck Do We Do About John Now'. You may be seated.

"Don't give me that look." Lestrade grumbled as the two Holmes helped themselves into his flat. He had only managed to get into his trousers before he received two very closed ended texts. Alright, so maybe he could have managed into a shirt, but this was his flat and they needed to leave. That wasn't going to happen, though, so he wasn't going to try. He was certain that the Holmes wouldn't start a physical fight, but if any time was the time to start, it was while he smelled of sex and John. Each brother gave him an eyeful and a scowl as they brushed past him and into the flat.

"I didn't start this." He said with a pointed stare to Mycroft. The DI was always a few steps behind, but then again, most people were. Mycroft was already aware of the vicious circle they had unknowingly created. He'd realized about half way through his own relations with John. To be fair, though, he hadn't actually 'started' this. He hadn't been wrong, only slightly misled. He would take responsibility for that, and would admit that his jealously had momentarily caused him to skip things in his deductions.

"If you're insinuating it was me, you're incorrect." He assured his rival as he knocked away the filth from one of the chairs and propped himself in it. Lestrade's eyes wavered to his brother. Sherlock didn't sit, but stood by the window with his arms crossed over his chest. Pale eyes glanced between them with childish disbelief. Surely they weren't trying to pin this on him. This was Lestrade's fault, the heavy handed fool.

"We can hardly blame him." Mycroft sniffed. "He'd never seen love marks before. We can't expect him to tell the difference." Sherlock glared down his older brother. He wasn't saying he was right, but if he was, then where did John get his bruises? He caught up to Mycroft's train of thought instantly, and the reason they were standing in Lestrade's living room. If they hadn't done it, and John hadn't told any of them who had, then there was only one person who would dare to lay a hand on him and only one person who John wouldn't, or rather couldn't, talk about.

"Wait," Greg wasn't nearly as quick on the uptake. "If it wasn't me, and it wasn't," He assured them sharply. "And it wasn't Mycroft, and Sherlock's hands are too slim,"

"Do try to keep up, Lestrade." The younger Holmes sneered. "Moriarty, obviously." He helpfully added in, knowing the man would never make it to the conclusion on his own. Lestrade closed his eyes with a heavy sigh, signifying he had forgotten all about Moriarty. They'd all known that Moriarty had contacted him and hadn't been very gentle about it, but he hadn't been heard from since. Sherlock was glad the DI wasn't responsible for their boyfriend. To think Lestrade thought he could take care of John and juggle his job at the Yard was a laugh and this was the proof.

"We have to find it." He stated out loud, though the Holmes already knew that.

"It's not in the flat."

"It's in his leg. That 'lump' you thought was from the war, is not." Mycroft explained. "John's limp was psychosomatic."

"If he's being threatened, and he is," Sherlock followed up swiftly as if to try to show up his brother. "And if he doesn't know where it is, which I doubt he'd even consider where it actually is, then he's in danger."

"Helpful." The older Holmes stated sarcastically. "However, Sherlock, we don't know the situation. Even if we do get whatever it is out of him, we don't know what it is, what it does, who it's for, or what will happen if we interfere."

"Are you suggesting that John is not the most important thing right now?"

"I'm suggesting that there are complications that we must think of." He spared a glance at his phone. "And he just left the flat."

"Stop him," the younger demanded.

"I can't without risking putting him in danger. If Moriarty sees anyone suspicious around him, we could put him in more danger. Not to mention he's exceedingly good at getting people on the inside." Even so, his fingers worked over the board of his phone. "The best I can do is keep him in sight."

"That's the best the Government can do?"

"If I were acting for the government right now, Sherlock, John would be gone." Mycroft assured him ominously. The room fell quiet as they each attempted to find a solution as quickly as they possibly could.

"Which way is he headed? If we can get their first, we could minimize the danger at least." Sherlock summed up his thoughts into the simplest form he could.

"London's huge. It would be a wild guess at best and we don't have time to guess wrong." The older shook his head dismissively. If they weren't sure, they might as well have done nothing at all. Both were terrible ideas, but they still had time. It had been proven that the Holmes, alone, could solve any problem given enough time. To be fair, if they honestly and whole heartedly worked together, they could solve things twice as quickly, but their natures were incompatible even when pressure was applied. However, as usual, Lestrade was assumed to be incompetent when, in actuality, he was not.

"I know where he's going." Greg announced with twice as much confidence than the Holmes could ever show. Both brothers looked unconvinced.

"For all your smarts, you guys are just plain stupid sometimes."

o-o-o

John had expected to be snatched off the street again, and was thankful when he wasn't. He was already sore and the lug of a 'Seb' could pop bowling balls. Instead, he was phoned. He was beyond asking how Moriarty got his number, and instead focused on getting away with his life and his sanity.

"Do you have it?" John would never get use to hearing the man's voice. He didn't lie.

"Yes." He could practically hear Moriarty smirk on the other side and it nearly gave him the shivers.

"I knew you did. Give it to me, Watson."

He took the chance to name his location for 'pick up'. That was all it should be, but he wouldn't be able to live with himself if he handed Moriarty anything he needed to kill any amount of people without fighting for it. He was a doctor and a soldier and he saw the kinds of things Moriarty cause; the chaos and death and destruction and John wouldn't stand for it.

"I'll bring it to the Westen Theater." John knew Moriarty couldn't refuse a show.

He walked there. When it came to cabs and Moriarty, John didn't trust them. The last thing he needed was another killer cabbie. He brought his gun, but he wasn't planning on using it. It would be easy, he knew, if he could surprise him. Unlikely Sherlock, John knew how to weigh his options. If he shot Moriarty, fatal or otherwise, he would be shot. That was a given. He had no problem giving his life it meant that the psychopath was out of this world, as well, but he wouldn't do that unless he had a clear, uninterrupted chance. It would have to be fast and completely unpredicted otherwise it would be for nothing. He had to handle this with the utter most delicacy. He could only hope that his connection to Sherlock gave him the buffer he needed.

From outside, he could hear music in the theater. He knew it was empty, though. The place hadn't been used in years. According to Mycroft, who seemed to be very fond of taking him to empty, sometimes creepy places around London on their dates, it had been run by a man who used it to perform assassinations. In theory, it was the worse place to be alone with a psychopath, considering how many places he could hide his people, and Moriarty always had his people. John turned that into an advantage. He knew Moriarty would have hidden company and John could strategize. If he couldn't get away unwounded, then he could at least get away alive.

He quietly entered the building, even though he knew it was fruitless to sneak in. Moriarty would be able to see him in the dark and hear him under the music. The mastermind always seemed to know in the same way the Holmes did. He watched Moriarty from where he bobbed about on the stage as he made his way down the rows of seats. He joined the consulting criminal on the stage and the music died down just enough to hear each other speak. Moriarty's smirk spoke mountains alone.

"The sound in this place is fantastic! I should torture people here." John watched the other man approach him.

"I'm so glad you found my chip." He purred. They were roughly the same height, but that didn't make him any less intimidating. His grubby little fingers attached to his thigh and heartlessly yanked at the stitches hidden under John's jeans. The medic only flinched even as the blood began to soak through his trousers and down his leg.

"Sneaky, sneaky man he was hiding it _in_ you." It sounded like a compliment, but it wasn't.

"Who was he?"

"Don't worry about him. He's dead now. Such a lovely skull, he had, though." Moriarty assured him. This was a stupid idea. He was way in over his head. The man practically pranced away from him, making a little turn on the wooden deck and making his way back. John kept him out of distance this time, however, and Moriarty stopped.

"Give it to me." He demanded rather politely.

"What is it?" Thankfully, John knew how to contain his emotions. It wasn't the first time he'd faced danger. In fact, he knew things far more dangerous than Moriarty. He was cruel, unpredictable, and bat shit insane, but he was still just a man.

"I hardly think that's any use to you, little doctor." His tone alerted John that things were starting to take a turn for the worse. He fetched the glass tube from his pocket and held it out to his side, careful to keep it far away from Moriarty. The man eyed it sharply.

"What did you do?" He demanded sharply, the thin lips swiftly curving down.

"Sherlock is very good at chemistry, but you know that." John started, loosening his grip around the glass. "Upon contact with air, it will burn fast and it will burn hot and the chip will be destroyed." Moriarty took a step toward him and he let the glass slide through his fingers just a little bit. Not a perfect plan by any means, but he wasn't going to walk into a death trap without a shield. If Moriarty was going to win no matter what, then so would John. There was a moment where neither of them spoke, but the music prevent any silence from happening.

"Very clever." The criminal laughed.

"Sherlock is a good influence."

"How do I know it's undamaged? In fact, what exactly is you're plan here? You see, regardless, you're not going to walk out of here alive, no matter what I tell you is on it. In fact, it could be nothing at all. I could have lured you here to kill you." He teased. He was right, of course, but that was why this plan wasn't perfect.

"You don't play with pets." John reminded him. Moriarty laughed at him.

"But you see, you're not a pet anymore, John Watson. You're the prize. My chances of getting a Holmes are two out of three. The probability of them actually coming is even higher, depending on how much they actually care for you." Now he had to trudge carefully. He had to call his bluff. John dropped the vial a little more and Moriarty closed his eyes momentarily. Thank god.

"If that's the case, I'll just toss this and give them a call." He suggested. The man bobbed his head like a snake preparing for the kill. This information must have been worth even more than he thought. John wasn't sure if he should be pleased or not. Moriarty was too erratic.

"Give it to me."

"That tone won't work on me, Moriarty." That was it, then. He'd taken a walk to his death. Not only had he pissed off the bi-polar man, but he had no intentions of handing the item over. The more important it was, the more people that would suffer. Perhaps he could hold out until someone came to help him, but it was unlikely. John glanced into the dark at any and all places for people to hide. There were too many of them. If he reached for his gun, he'd be spotted. He could throw it at the man and hope for the best, but letting go of his winning token was the worst thing he could do in this situation. They were in a deadlock, but he could already tell Moriarty was thinking and unfortunately, the criminal thought twice as fast and jumped to conclusions far easier than he did. John knew when to flee.

"You can still walk away." He informed. Moriarty looked amused.

"Me?"

"Even if I give it to you, there's no guarantee that you will be able to retrieve it without burning it. If I don't leave here, three of your most powerful enemies will come and this time, they will be out for blood." John was scraping at the bottom of the barrel.

"I know you're not afraid of them, but you should be. If you are as smart as you think you are, you would run. You would run and hide and pray that they didn't find you." The shorter male informed proudly.

"Gregory Lestrade," He began pointedly. "Is far braver, far more forceful, and twice the man you'll ever be. You think he's soft, but you obviously hadn't seen him work. If I fall, he will knock your empire out from under your feet. Every one of your workers; gone. How powerful are you when you stand alone? A mad man with mad words." Moriarty began to circle and John was forced to take the opposite path to keep him out of arms distance. If he lunged, he had to have enough time to smash any hope of the criminal getting what he wanted.

"Sherlock Holmes is twice as clever as you. Making puzzles is the easy part. Solving them is a different story. You take away his heart and you'll make a monster of him. He'd be much like you, only worse. Unlike you, he knows what he has lost and that will make him that much more determined to make you suffer. He won't kill you, but then again, he won't have to." It was impossible to tell whether or not he was succeeding or if Moriarty was simply walking him into a trap. There were too many possibilities and he had to hope something slipped.

"But Mycroft Holmes will be the worst of it because he's so much colder and so much deadlier than you. He won't play with you, he won't chase you. He won't bother with your friends, or your family, or your workers. He won't talk to you. He won't warn you. He won't intimidate you. He will find you where you live, where you sleep, and he will cut your throat. But that's not the worst of it. No one will know who you were, or who you hurt, or what you did. The streets won't whisper your name. There won't be stories. There won't be lies. You'll disappear and no one will have even known." He'd bought himself some time, but all he heard was music. Moriarty stopped and John mimicked him. He took two precautionary steps back, just in case the mastermind really was trying to get him to stand on a target. Dark eyes stared at him and John decided that it was probably a good idea to stop poking the bear. Then Moriarty laughed again. The little doctor had no idea whether it was a good or bad laughter.

"I see why they like you." Moriarty purred, showing his teeth in an unsettling smile. "Perhaps I should pin after you, myself. Me. You. My pet." He suggested. "Could always use more pets." Was that a serious suggestion? Did Moriarty really think he would leave a relationship he was perfectly happy with for a psycho fuck? Of course he did. He was a psycho fuck.

"Pass."

"That's too bad, Johnny Boy, because you're counting on a lot of things being in your favor. If I can't have it, then I'll just take you." He snapped loudly over the music. John flinched at the signal, but nothing happened. Moriarty proceeded to throw a fit. He held his hands out, as if he were going to strangle an invisible man.

"Sebastian!" He yelped shrilly. The music cut off suddenly. "Sebastian!"

The large, blonde man was thrown onto the stage from out of the dark and directly onto his face. It didn't hinder him, though, and he instantly attempted to push himself back up despite his arms being bound with cuffs, zip ties, rope, his jacket, _and _a belt. Lestrade hurriedly shoved him back onto his stomach to hold him down.

"Slippery little bastard you have here." He grunted. He'd fought, by the looks of his split lip and swelling eye. If he'd landed any blows on the sniper, they weren't nearly as bad. His face and neck were soaked, though, where he'd been sprayed with PAVA repeatedly. John doubted Sebastian could see at the moment, but he still had some fight left in him. Given even the smallest amount of lee way, he would undoubtedly lunge. Moriarty 'tsk'ed.

"Oh Sebby." He hummed. "Why didn't you kill him?" The criminal snapped suddenly and delivered a swift kick to his sniper's face. Sebastian rolled his head away.

"No matter." He fixed his tie and collar. "There are others."

"Don't bother bluffing, Jim. There aren't 'others'." Sherlock entered stage right and John had to glance over his shoulder to make sure it really was him. The taller male shoved his hands into his pockets and approached them stiffly. He examined the blood spot growing his boyfriend's leg momentarily, surveying the physical damage.

"You could have helped me with this." Lestrade motioned to the man he pinned down. Despite having been the one to know where John was at, Sherlock seemed to push it all on luck. It was a little bit of luck, but it was more about knowing how John thought. If he was going to be attacked, he would choose somewhere where he could get away and protect himself the easiest. They might have tried to keep their dates secret, but they never were. The theater was the only place where John could feel even the smallest amount safe and it's location meant that if something were to happen, no one else would be hurt. It wasn't luck. It was years of knowing how people worked.

"You had it under control." Sherlock assured him.

"I think he actually broke my face."

"Someone needs to get me out of here right now!" John said loudly. He was sore, bruised, battered, needed a real bath, and would have a headache for days. He wanted to go home and he wanted to do it now.

"Of course, John. That's what we came for." Mycroft assured him as he entered stage left, successfully blocking the last of Moriarty's exits. It was too bad the criminal had never planned on running. It was also too bad that it was never a good idea to corner a wild animal. The short, insane man made a small turn to examine the group that outnumbered him.

"Oh dear. Looks like I got three out of three. It's my lucky day, isn't it?" He reached into his suit pocket and retrieved his phone. "Let's see if I can get four out of six."

Part Two  
>Three Hearts; One Fire<p>

Mycroft was unfamiliar with his surroundings when he awoke. His entire body tingled and his sight was impaired. A few blinks assured him that there were hospital lights hovering over him. Then he began his self check. He was bandaged up pretty bad, but nothing seemed broken. Mostly burns and a few shrapnel wounds consistent with an explosion. He scrapped his mind for the memory of what had happened. That was right, Moriarty had planted a bomb. He should have thought of that. It was Moriarty's specialty, after all. He forced himself up just enough to examine the room. Beside him, Lestrade lay just as bandaged up as him and still unconscious. Beyond that, his brother was already struggling to get free from the bed, though his condition was no better. The nurses were struggling to hold him down and Mycroft had the suspicion that the only reason he could fight was because he couldn't feel anything yet. He'd have to tell them to take him off the morphine. He'd most likely become addicted and the pain would keep him in the bed. There was no sign of another body, but one of the beds was empty and cleaned. He could only hope that John was in better shape.

"Sherlock," He groaned over the mess. "Stop it." He demanded, laying himself back down. Lestrade grunted, signifying he was awake as well. He listened for several more seconds, but Sherlock showed no signs of even having heard him. He had, definitely, he simply was ignoring him. Why did he always have to be so difficult?

"Sherlock Holmes! You will lie down and let the nurses do their job or so help me, I will come over there and I will smack you!" Mycroft instructed viciously. Sherlock quieted down and the nurses let out a sigh of relief. One of them came to his bedside, murmuring a small thanks and proceeded to ask him a series of questions starting with his name. Some of them were medical questions and others were to make sure he didn't have brain damage. He was slightly unsure which were which, but he was more than happy to go along with it. He could hear the other two doing the same; Lestrade confused and Sherlock unhappy.

"Your assistant has been in and out the last few days. Don't worry, everything's fine. We're keeping everything on the low." She assured him. Mycroft wasn't worried about that. Anthea had that under control. He wasn't even worried about his wounds; mostly burns as he had already deduced.

"Where is John Watson?" He asked once she had finished. She appeared confused and Mycroft attempted not to panic. Maybe he just wasn't awake yet. That was it.

"There was another man. Possibly two others. He's a small thing, short, blonde." He described hurriedly. She frowned at him.

"There was another man." She assured him. "He was short. He was too charred to tell who he was, or if he was blonde. He didn't make it." The heart monitors in the room went off simultaneously, startling the nurses.

"And there was no one else?" Mycroft trudged on for any hope that there had been a mistake. The nurse nodded, but she didn't look too pleased about it.

"He was taken to another hospital this morning. He was relatively uninjured. Something must have shielded him from the blast." It could be John. Maybe they thought he was someone he wasn't and got switched around. He couldn't imagine the hospital would do that with a John Doe, though. Mycroft wanted everything to be possible. He swallowed thickly, staring up at the ceiling blankly.

"What was his name?"

"The man that came for him IDed him as Richard Brook." The name alone started Sherlock up again at twice the fight. He struggled ferociously about the bed, the nurses, and the machines. There was nothing Mycroft could say to stop him now. Lestrade sat in stunned silence. They all knew that name.

"Thank you." Mycroft said politely, but dismissively. He didn't want to believe it, and until they were sure it was his body, he wouldn't. John was strong. Maybe there had been someone else in the building? Maybe it was 'Sebastian' and something happened to make him appear shorter. Maybe he wasn't actually dead and the doctors were just really incompetent. He tried not to think too hard about it right now. The more excuses he made, the more he'd fool himself into not believing the inevitable.

"We failed." Lestrade whispered brokenly. "All we had to do was keep him alive and we failed."

Mycroft's heart ached softly.

Moriarty and his nasty little pet disappeared completely. However, so did John's supposed body, leaving them with the smallest sliver of hope and that was all that was needed. Mycroft knew that it was too much to hope for, and that there was no reasonable answer to John's disappearance. It was surprising the number of body's that went missing from the morgue without anyone having to be involved. They could have gotten him confused, or there paper could have sent him to the wrong place. There wasn't any reason to hope that there was something strange going on, but because Moriarty was involved, they had to assume something was going on.

There were no records of 'Richard Brook' anywhere in the hospital when it was checked. He wasn't on any of the cameras and neither was John. While he'd supposedly been moved to another hospital, that wasn't the case. He'd vanished completely. It was the smart thing to do. He had Anthea check the entire hospital for any sign of the blonde man, including John Does dead or alive. It didn't help their hope when she came up empty handed. People didn't just 'disappear' from the view of the government. Whether he was alive or dead, Moriarty had something to do with it.

Life had to go on. Mycroft went back to work and back to being just as lonely as he had been before. Days turned to weeks turned to months and the sliver of hope began to close. The longer there was no word from him, the more likely he was dead. Still, he kept an ear to the ground. If Moriarty was alive, if he dared to still be alive, Mycroft would know. He would know and he would swiftly change that. There wasn't even the smallest of peeps from anyone. The thought that Moriarty had received the most damage from his own bomb was a nice thought, but highly unlikely.

Lestrade went back to work and back to dealing on his own. The word spread fast that if anyone saw anything of John Watson, they were to let him know immediately. No one saw anything. It was distressing, but he clung to his hope. No body, no death. That was the rule. Naturally, his instinct told him there was no chance, but the circumstances weren't the same as a normal person going missing. However, Lestrade would rather think John was dead than possibly being tortured by a psychopath. To think of Moriarty torturing John for this long made his blood boil. What kind of person did that?

Sherlock knew John, though. He didn't take anymore cases from the public, only sustaining his lifestyle on what Lestrade offered, and put the rest of his ability on locating his boyfriend. He went over every inch of the hospital, and the footage, and was all over London searching for even the smallest clue that he was still alive. The smallest amount of evidence, even if it was only the faint mistaken identity, drove him to continue his search. He wasn't obsessed, but John had rubbed off on him. The least he could do was make sure John was actually dead and if he was, he needed to be buried properly. Then Sherlock could move on with his life. Simple as that. It was one or the other; John was dead or John was alive. Sherlock had proof of neither and he wouldn't believe anything until he did.

And then he did.

A letter was found in his possession with no source of where it had come from. It'd been passed from person to person all over the streets of London trying to get to him. Preserved in a plastic bag a complete stranger handed it to him on the street. The return address was simply 'Jim Moriarty' and the address as 'Sherlock Holmes'. The letter wasn't from Moriarty, though. It was from John. The only reason he didn't keep it to himself was to make sure they kept looking. Lestrade was close to giving up and Mycroft wouldn't actively strive towards anything without good reason. Sherlock could do this on his own, but if Lestrade came to his flat with that stupid solemn expression of his one more time, he was going to do something very illegal.

"Dear Sherlock Holmes,"

For everything it was worth, it was relieving to know that John was okay. It was, without a doubt, his handwriting and it was stress-free and smooth. He wasn't injured, or being tortured, or dead. Still, he was with Moriarty and anything was possible. That was the worst part. If John was alive, and coherent, why was he with Moriarty? Why wasn't he trying to get away? Sherlock had been over the letter a dozen times over. John was _happy_. He couldn't find even the smallest hint of a S.O.S, or a plea for help, and that was more frustrating than anything else. How could John be happy without him?

"It's been a while, hasn't it? I really do miss you and all of my old friends, really. Well, I say friends. We all know it was more than that. I'm happy now, don't you worry. Perhaps we should get together again one day. Between my new lovers and work, that'd be quite impossible right now. I'd give you my number, but you would probably hunt me down, wouldn't you? You always were brilliant. Not as brilliant as your brother, of course. I still remember how you two would fight over me. You two were so cold compared to that old romantic, though. We all know there was no competition in the end. Take care of yourselves. Or don't. Love, John Watson." Lestrade lowered the letter, though the grim silence of the room wasn't much better than the writing.

He couldn't believe it. None of them wanted to believe it. Sherlock was already pacing, his silhouette distorted against the web he had created against one wall of his flat. Mycroft's frown could have been etched permanently on his face. It was a lot to take in.

"And you're sure this is John's hand?" How long had it been since that day? Almost a year now since they'd waken up to the start of their lives without John. It was still hard to comprehend.

"Of course I'm sure!" The younger Holmes sneered at him.

"Yeah, well what if Moriarty forged his hand?"

"Are you stupid?" Came the swift, unforgiving judgement. Lestrade took it all in stride, as he always did. Sherlock was taking this the hardest. John had been his best friend long before anything else had formed. This was tough for all of them, but if John was living- no, lovers- with Moriarty, then their next move had to be very careful. Lestrade couldn't imagine John doing anything to willingly hurt any of them, especially Sherlock. Things changed.

"If it was forged, there'd be hesitation marks. Spots where the pen rested. John's right handed, there are smudge marks on the right side." Sherlock snatched the paper away from him. "The curves, the slant, the way he dots his 'i's and dashes the 't's. It's _his_." He pinned it back to the wall where he'd been working on hunting down where the letter had come from. It was an awful game of telephone.

"If it is," Lestrade wasn't completely convinced.

"It is."

"Then what do we do now?" Surely they couldn't let this continue. This didn't instantly make John a criminal, but things weren't looking good. It was also clear that he wasn't interested in being found, but that didn't mean he didn't need to be. They didn't even know when this had began. Lestrade had never thought he'd see the day where _the _John H. Watson was sweet talked by Moriarty. He hadn't known that was something he had to worry about.

Sherlock didn't have an answer. He even looked torn. He turned away from them with what Lestrade could only read as hurt. The evidence was hard to ignore and all of the evidence was pointing to John betraying him; betraying them all.

"We find him." Mycroft responded in a way that made it sound like they weren't speaking about John at all. Lestrade wouldn't have it. They were wrong. He didn't care what the evidence said; John was not a criminal.

Part Three  
>Richard Brook: is Fake<p>

One Year Previous

John awoke in an unfamiliar room. To be fair, any room he woke up in would have been foreign to him. His head felt as though it'd been split wide open and he had to check to make sure it hadn't. There was no blood, but his hair was singed and his hand was blackened. He couldn't tell if anything was wrong, though. His other hand was chained to the bed frame and he naturally wondered if that was bad. It seemed bad, but his mind wasn't connecting it.

"Ooh." More things he didn't know. John glanced to the voice, watching the man in the doorway watch him. "You're awake now, are you little doctor?" He hummed.

"Am I a doctor?" John murmured softly. He didn't think he was a doctor. He didn't remember being a doctor. The stranger eyed him curiously and took two steps toward the end of the bed. He didn't answer for a moment and John wondered if it had been something of a tease.

"Yes." He finally answered. "Don't you remember?" The man frowned, but there was something in his eyes that John couldn't place. He was dressed in bandages from his neck down to his chest and most likely even further down, but John couldn't see that far. A large patch covered one side of his face, but it didn't obstruct his facial features. John realized he wasn't in any better condition and he flinched at the pain that lurched through his awakening body. Had they been in an accident of some sort?

The stranger approached the bed a few more steps, though he seemed to think about each step, as though each one were different than the last. John shook his head.

"No. I don't." He admitted.

"Do you remember anything?" The stranger pressed on. John called back as many memories as he could, but they wouldn't come. He couldn't even remember his own name, or how old he was, or any personal information and it scared him. The man touched his hand lovingly, but his skin was cold to the touch.

"It's okay." His voice was so affectionate and soothing that John's brain instantly told him it was false, but he couldn't think of a reason why the stranger would fake it.

"I'm Jim, remember? Jim Moriarty?" The name sounded so familiar to John. There were some very strong connections to it, but he wasn't sure if they were good or bad. He assumed they were good. When he couldn't remember anything, he didn't want them to be bad. Jim gently brought their hands together.

"I don't remember." John murmured apologetically. Jim chuckled. It sounded so dark and the little doctor's skin jumped.

"Don't worry. We were in a bit of an accident. You must have hit your head worse than I thought. Do you know what your name is?"

"No." He squeezed the hand in his own and Jim squeezed back.

"You're name is Richard, remember? Richard Brook." That didn't sound familiar, but neither did being a doctor. John frowned a little. Had he really hit his head that hard?

"You're thirty seven. Your birthday is January fourteenth. You were a doctor in Afghanistan after attending Bart's. I'm your boyfriend." Jim assured him gently and slowly. John was completely willing to believe what he was being told. He didn't know anything else. Besides, why would his boyfriend lie to him?

"Sebastian!" The man yelped suddenly and John flinched. A few seconds passed a much taller man limped into the doorway. His nose was broken, and one of his eyes was swollen, but they seemed to be different from the burns and cuts over the rest of his body. He must have been in the worse part of it.

"And this is Sebastian Moran, Richard," Jim smiled. "Your other boyfriend."

"Other boyfriend?" John murmured. Sebastian's face mimicked the question.

"Oh yeah," The smaller male purred the beginning of his story. "We all love each other very much, don't we Sebby?" He insisted. Sebastian looked unconvinced, and slightly confused, but Jim glared at him and he swiftly answered.

"Yeah. 'Course. Love." He grumbled, approaching the side of the bed. John wasn't entirely sure what to make of his attitude. He didn't seem very pleased about it. John wasn't sure he was very pleased with it, either.

"He's a little upset. You did forget him, Richard." Jim scolded. He sat on the edge of the bed and it tilted slightly under his weight, just enough to send another shot of pain through John's body.

"I guess I'll just have to tell you. I do love a good story." He folded one knee over the other and propped his hands a top it. "You two met in Afghanistan, where, Richard, you were working as a doctor, of course, and Seb was a soldier or something. He kept getting hurt and you were always the one that stitched him back together. Of course, he fell in love with you. Then kept hurting himself just so he could come and see you. Then one day, he brought you something very romantic." Jim cooed.

"He did?"

"He did." The man snapped his fingers repeatedly. "What was it again, Sebby?"

"Flowers." Sebastian grunted.

"Boring." Jim scoffed.

"We were in the desert."

"How the fuck did you get flowers in the desert?"

"Thank you." John murmured softly, smiling pleasantly at the man. That sounded rather impressive. He really wished he could remember.

"Whatever." Jim waved it off. "Anyways, you two fell madly in love, as stupid people do," Sebastian cleared his throat loudly, drowning out part of the other man's words. "And then you got shot so they had to send you home." A sharp finger poked his shoulder and John cringed. He covered the spot with his free hand. That sounded awful. He was a little glad he didn't remember that part.

"But then- why is Sebastian here?"

"Dishonorable discharge." Jim shrugged. John looked over the blonde man with disapproval. "He shot the people that shot you. Some people say he did it just so he could go home with you."

"Did you?" He asked curiously. Sebastian grunted but didn't approve or disapprove.

"So, of course, you two came back here. Then you began to be afraid of going outside." Jim informed him promptly. John was suddenly afraid to go outside.

"I did?"

"Of course! Don't worry, Richard, love, we're working on it." He patted the blonde's cheek rather roughly with the back of his hand. "Agoraphobia. It's just terrible. We had to get you out of the hospital before you woke up or we would never get you home." He laughed, but John was actually terrified of the idea of being out of the house. Horribly, horribly terrified.

"Then you had an affair with me. You could hardly be blamed. I am very handsome." He praised himself with the utter most gratitude. Beige eyes turned back to Sebastian, completely horrified by the idea that he would do such a thing.

"I'm sorry."

"You really were. Then you two had a very long conversation and now here we are." Jim finished up with a flourish of the hands. "Any questions?" John only hesitated a moment.

"Yes. Why am I handcuffed to the bed?" He tugged at his wrist mildly, careful not to aggravate the skin under his bandages. It jingled pointedly against the metal framing.

"You woke up and punched Sebby in the face. We had to do something." Jim shrugged carelessly. "Broke his nose pretty bad, look at that."

"I'm sorry." John murmured again, though his supposed boyfriend didn't seem too bothered by it. "But can you uncuff me now?"

"Go on then. Unlock him Seb."

There was something strange about the way he lived, John realized after a couple days. It didn't seem right at all, but he couldn't find anything out of place. He didn't have any clothes here, or personal items, which seemed strange, but Jim assured him they'd been in the middle of a move when they were injured. John wasn't completely convinced, but his foggy mind returned with foggy memories. He'd definitely had a boyfriend before, he remembered. He was tall and he had been a heavy smoker. That described Sebastian well enough. He never smoked inside, but there was always the air about him as if it were his cologne. He remembered being a doctor, which simply came naturally when Sebastian came home wounded.

Jim claimed to be a professor, but he came and went at such strange hours of the day and night that John was starting to question whether or not he actually was. He couldn't imagine classes in such a way. Sebastian was a freelancer, though he never specified in what. He would come home with open wounds and bruises, but they were never too bad. He was probably just - John couldn't actually think of anything, but he tried not to think about it too much. He was too busy trying to bring his own memories back.

He wasn't sure if he'd been happy with his life before, but it was certainly never boring. It was hard to tell what Jim would do. He lashed out for seemingly no reason. John was smart enough to stay out of the way. Sebastian was usually the target. He attempted to strike John once, after he'd stupidly mentioned that it couldn't have possibly been Sebastian's fault, but his boyfriend had protected him. He had decided that it was an awful idea to interfere between the two. Instead, he opted to patch him up after their fights. His behavior was familiar, though. Not the anger, but there was something else about him. Familiar was good, though. He liked to think it was him remembering, even if he never fully did.

Sebastian was far more mellow, thankfully, and was never gone while Jim was in. John wasn't sure what to do if left alone with Jim. It seemed like something that would end badly and even be dangerous. Why would he trust a man like that? Maybe he really had hit his head a little too hard. John didn't feel like himself and he didn't feel right in his lover's arms. Even when they sat together on the glass patio, it felt wrong. In his own ways, Jim was kind. John could be outside without actually being outside. The thick glass walls gave him a wonderful view of nearly all of London and it was peaceful. However, he didn't feel afraid.

He was. He was deathly afraid of stepping out onto the street and he didn't know why. He supposed that was why it was a phobia. He wished he could remember why he was so afraid to go outside. John watched the people move around on the ground. Ants, Jim called them, and laughed. He was a frightening man.

"Sebastian," John always called him by his full name. "Why do you," He paused momentarily. "We. Why do we put up with Jim? I don't mean to sound ungrateful. He's done a lot for me. Us. I think this room really is helping me get better and the doctor he brought to treat me. All of my wounds are nearly healed," He hadn't been told what had happened, though. Jim was afraid they'd pull back the bad kind of memories.

"But I've seen the way he treats you." John murmured worriedly. "It's awful."

"Respect." Sebastian grumbled. John glanced over his shoulder and looked at him with disbelief. His eyes returned to the glass and the view beyond it. He would remember one day and then he wouldn't stay here so freely.

"I guess he must have done something great to earn your," John closed his eyes with frustration. "Our." He corrected himself again. "Respect."

"Yes." Sebastian knew his simple answers never satisfied the man, but he couldn't lie like Jim did. Not to mention if he accidentally screwed anything up, Jim would do a lot more than break his nose. He could see him remembering, though, and had to be watched carefully. If he remembered what Jim had done to them, he wouldn't be happy. If he did remember, then he would remember that it wasn't smart to play games with Jim. Why Jim thought it was a good idea to show him where they kept the guns, Seb would never know. Sometimes he thought the man misjudged people. If Jim though John wouldn't kill them after what they'd done to him, he was mistaken. The shock of remembering alone could drive him to attack them without warning. Adding in the lies they made him believe, Sebastian wouldn't be surprised if neither of them woke up in the morning.

"You still don't remember?"

"A little bit," John admitted. He walked away from the window and joined Sebastian on the lounge chair. "I remember you." The taller blonde man listened carefully. "I had a dream last night. I think it was a memory, or at least part of one. We were on a date. I think it was in Afghanistan. It was some sort of abandoned building. You were in a suit," John described, though the more he spoke the more disoriented he seemed to become.

"I don't think I've ever seen you in a suit. And I think you had your hair dyed. And there was cake. And then- and then," He backed away from the chair slowly, but suddenly. "And then you threw me on the ground. And hit me." The anger in John's voice practically demanded a good reason. "Because Jim told you to."

"Calm down, Richard." He was remembering and he was remembering with fury. Jim wasn't taking this seriously. John was in their house, sleeping in their beds, cooking in their kitchen. He could remember at any moment. Maybe while Jim is hovering over his shoulder in the kitchen. Maybe while he treated Sebastian's wounds. Jim didn't understand that this wasn't like the games he played at a distance.

"It's just a dream." Sebastian reminded him. John calmed down steadily, nodding to prove the fact to himself.

"Sorry. I don't know what came over me." He approached the chair again, but Sebastian was careful to watch his hands. John kissed him quietly, but as usual, hesitated a little first. This wasn't working. Jim's lies were to big. John wasn't believing them.

"I love you, Richard." The words were always stiff in his mouth, but John only smiled a little.

"I love you too, Sebastian. Thank you for putting up with me. I must be a burden without my memory and the whole outside phobia, but I really need you right now." Good God, Jim was suicidal. He needed to get John out of here and now. As if on cue, Jim returned in his loud way.

"I'm home, my pets!"

"Don't tell Jim, please. I don't want him to think I don't love him." John murmured softly, as if the thought would actually disturb Jim. He'd probably laugh. He'd laugh at the idea of Sebastian not telling him something.

"'Course."

The more time passed, the more anxious John seemed to get. Not outwardly, of course. Sebastian watched him, though. He would flinch whenever Jim looked at him, as any sensible person did, and would always pull away before being touched or touching either of them. He could tell the soldier in him was remembering they were enemies, but the lies Jim had hammered into his brain was telling him that they most certainly were not. Thankfully, he didn't seem to respond to any names offhandedly mentioned in the news. He never paid any particular attention to Lestrade or the few times Holmes was mentioned. Sebastian was sure if he were to focus on any of them for any amount of time, they would have a problem. Jim wasn't helping that problem.

"Richard, I need you to take a note for me." Jim insisted innocently enough. Everything he did started out innocently enough, usually. Sebastian thought it was a way he mentally drew people into his convoluted mind traps. Just because he knew how it worked didn't mean he didn't was any better defended against it. John shifted a little from where he sat comfortably leaned against the taller, much more muscular man. It was obvious he was more at peace with Sebastian. All things considering, Sebastian hadn't tried to choke him yet. It had been an entire month before John even wanted to be in the same room as Moriarty and even then, it was clear he was starting to question anything Jim said or did.

"Sure." John agreed without a fight. He didn't trust Jim, but he wasn't stupid enough to invoke his wrath for a stupid reason, either. Jim gave him a sheet of paper and a pen, both of which were strikingly fancy. He sat the blonde man down at the dinning room table and hovered over his shoulder slightly.

"Is there any reason you're not doing this?" He wasn't expecting an answer, a lot of things Jim did didn't have an answer, but it was worth a try.

"I've been writing all day, Richard," Jim complained, putting his hands out on the table where John could see. "I don't want to come home and write."

"Right. What am I writing?" This was familiar. John remembered doing an assortment of things simply because his boyfriend was too lazy or too 'busy' to do it. The act he remembered, but it didn't belong with Jim, if that was possible. That wasn't surprising, though. Not a lot of things did belong with Jim.

"Dear Sherlock Holmes,"

_I don't have friends. I only have one. Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger. That's not what people normally say. People do little else. I'm a high functioning sociopath. This is the only place where you can see everything. _John!

"Sherlock Holmes?" John asked curiously. Sebastian turned to watch him with a sudden caution. "I think I heard about him on the news. Do you know him?"

"We use to go to school together. We fell apart when he started his little pretend detective business and I pursued a real dream. We were really good friends." Jim purred. His boyfriend tapped the end of the pen against the table thoughtfully.

"I think you've told me that before. I think I remember a little bit of it, anyways." He mused proudly. The healing process was so painfully slow sometimes. He shrugged it away for the moment, though, returning his pen to the paper to continue. Sebastian stared his disapproval at Jim and was ignored.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?" Jim was writing a honest letter. Hell must have frozen over. "I really do miss you and all of my old friends, really. Well, I say friends." The man purred. John wasn't surprised. "We all know if was more than that. I'm happy now, don't you worry. Perhaps we should get together again one day. Between my new lovers and work, that'd be quite impossible right now." Was it a good letter?

"I'd give you my number, but you would probably hunt me down, wouldn't you?"

"Uh. Why would he do that?" That didn't sound like something that was good. Jim pressed bony fingers into John's shoulders and rested his chin on the feathered blonde hair.

"Oh, Sherlock had always been obsessed with me. It was so adorable." That did sound like Sherlock. John wasn't sure why it did, but it did and he had no reason to question it.

"You always were brilliant. Not as brilliant as your brother, of course."

_The bravery of a soldier. You have to stay with him. Our traditions define us. I can't see why anyone wouldn't like you. I'm sorry,_ John.

"I remember how you two would fight over me. You two were so cold compared to that old romantic, though."

_You're an attractive man. But we're looking for it- there has to be one. Oh god, it's a kid. Brave, but kind and strong, but polite. I love you, _John Watson.

"We all know there was no competition in the end. Take care of yourselves. Or don't. Love, John Watson."

Love John Watson. Love John Hamish Watson, decorated soldier and highly trained doctor. Brother to Harriet Watson. Blogger to the great Sherlock Holmes. Boyfriend of Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, and Gregory Lestrade. Accomplished, self sufficient, brave, crack shot with a strong moral principal and nerves of steal.

"Richard?" Sebastian said sharply, but gently. John shook his head.

John - Watson, - and highly trained doctor. -Harriet Watson. Blogger-Sherlock Holmes. - Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes, and Gregory Lestrade. Accomplished, -, brave, crack shot with-moral principal and nerves -.

"Richard?" Jim hissed when he didn't respond. John cupped his forehead with his palm.

John - Watson, - and - doctor. -Watson. Blogger-. - Sherlock Holmes, -, and -Lestrade. -, -, brave, - with-moral - - -.

"Sorry. I thought- I thought I remembered something." John murmured, grasping at the fainting strings of thought. They escaped him despite the fight to keep them. He shook his head again.

"It's gone."

"It's okay, Richard." His boyfriend murmured against the nape of his neck. His name seemed to push the small scraps of his memories back.

"Anyways. John Watson?" John questioned curiously, though it wouldn't be the first time Jim was known by another name.

"Name changes and all that." Jim explained with little interest.

"No wonder it sounds so familiar. You want to sign it, then?"

"Print will be fine. It's a letter, not a cheque." The minutely taller male yawned with an air of boredom. John wasn't sure if it was a good letter or not. It seemed more like a taunt rather than a 'glad you're doing well' letter. In fact, Jim didn't seem to be the type to write letters until he had a good reason to. There were a lot of things he did for no reason, but this wouldn't be one of them. Still, John didn't bother questioning it. He finished off the letter as he was told and Jim snatched it out from under him.

"Perfect! Thank you, Richard, love. You make things so much easier for me." He complimented generously. John smiled softly. This wasn't all that bad, he supposed. He could see why he remained around. Between the two of them, it was a fair living. More like being a pet than anything else, honestly, but that wasn't always a bad thing. It was too bad John wasn't happy here anymore. Maybe he'd never been and he'd never said anything for the same reason he didn't say anything now. He was afraid.


	6. Spiteful

Everybody Loves John Watson

Misery Loves Company

(And Company Loves More)

Jim Moriarty: is Spiteful

"I want you to take him out." Jim insisted one day out of the blue. Sebastian didn't even stop his work, wrist deep on a body. Swallowing things did not keep them away from Jim Moriarty and this junkie had learned that the hard way. Obviously he wasn't talking about the stupid junkie, who had long since been dead. Sebastian dug out another one of the gems, dropping the bloody piece into the tray with the rest.

"Sherlock's getting closer to the shop. He'll be there soon." The smaller male mused from the bar top where he sat. Sebastian didn't bother with a response. Jim wasn't actually talking to him, or even explaining anything to him, he just liked to hear himself talk. Sebastian liked to hear him talk, too. Not to mention, if Jim didn't talk out loud, he'd never know what his boss was thinking and Jim always expected him to know.

"I want him to see that his beloved little pet is still alive. Oh, but don't let him talk to him. We wouldn't want Sherlock to know he doesn't remember." He laughed. "Much more fun to let him think he's been betrayed. Betrayed by the only man he ever considered a friend!" Jim wolfed with laughter, his face stretched taut and pleased. "I wonder what he'll do. Maybe he'll break! That's just the icing, though."

"You made him think he's afraid to go outside." Sebastian reminded him. They'd been pounding lies into the little doctor's head for a little over a year now. Watson really did believe he was an Agoraphobic and wouldn't even travel down into the lobby anymore. The closest he had gotten to going outside was when Sebastian accidentally left the bedroom window open to smoke and John had nearly had a panic attack. Not to mention he was completely convinced that whatever else Jim told him was true and the little psychopath was having way too much fun making him believe things. Sebastian saw no reason why they actually had to convince him he was dating either of them, let alone both of them. He also currently thought he knew how to bake, was terrified of the postal worker, and was obsessed with cutting names out of the newspaper. Because Jim told him he was.

Sebastian really needed to stop trusting Jim so unconditionally. Of course, he already knew his boss was completely insane and this was just a living reminder. Again, his worries about John suddenly remembering and going into a flurry of rage was at the front of his mind. Jim didn't seem to think that was possible, though.

"But he's not." Jim answered plainly, as if it were obviously. "So he won't actually be afraid." Sebastian wasn't sure things worked the way he thought they did. He'd made John think he was afraid to go outside meaning he actually was afraid to go outside. Jim had no idea how normal people worked. He was set on his decision, however, and there would be no arguing with him now.

"Carry him out if you fucking have to. Just make sure he's there when I tell you."

"Yes Boss." Sebastian tried not to argue with Jim.

And that was how Sebastian got into this situation. John might have forgotten being in Afghanistan, but his body sure didn't. As soon as he suggested that they leave, the smaller male began to flee with swift, determined steps. He was completely unwilling to go anywhere near the door, or Sebastian for that matter. Over the year, Sebastian had become the safe one. He was safe and predictable and far more cuddly than Jim could be. John's fear was legit and even his sane boyfriend couldn't convince him otherwise.

"I don't want to leave." John demanded as if his military voice would work on his military boyfriend. Sebastian approached him carefully, but the oversized living room turned them in circles even when he tried to back the smaller male into a corner. John awkwardly climbed over the couch and table, but still remained far out of reach. He wasn't interested in anything he knocked over, and only danced less than gracefully around the mess.

"It'll be okay, Richard. I'll be with you." This was not his forte. He could sit in silence and even go to great lengths to make sure John didn't get in the way of his boss, but he was not a people person. The last time Sebastian asked anyone to do anything, it was accompanied by the barrel of a gun. Jim was asking him to do something he had no skill in. There weren't a lot of other options, however. No, that was a lie. Setting the flat on fire would get John out of it.

"No! I'm perfectly happy inside!" John chucked whatever he could get his hands on at the approaching man, which was unfortunately quite a bit of stuff. The couch pillows were harmless, the mug was easy to dodge, the remote was a little painful, the handfuls of silverware just weren't fair, and the stain the wine left would be blamed on poor Seb later. He was very intent on not leaving the house, even if it meant maiming his boyfriend.

"Jim says you need to face your fears, Richard. You won't get better if you don't." Sebastian wasn't sure if it would make it worse or better by mentioning Jim.

"Well Jim's wrong! I'm perfectly fine with being afraid!" John's back hit the fridge and instantly he knew he was in trouble. He grasped at the edge of it, hoping desperately the handle would fall off so he could have something to fight the larger man off with.

"No! Sebastian! No! I don't want to go outside!" He tried to convince the other loudly. Sebastian ignored him, moving in for the kill before the slippery man could escape again. He wrapped his arms around the smaller man's waist and for his efforts, he was stuck. John might have been stronger than Jim, but he lacked the malicious intent the psychopath had. He wasn't much bigger than Jim, but as usual, the squirming made it far more difficult.

"Put me down, Sebastian! I'm serious!" He kicked and screamed and pounded on any part of Sebastian he could reach, which happened to be his back mostly. Which would have been easier if his back wasn't already torn up something fierce. John was a lot stronger than he looked and it was likely he was adding to the marks that already painted the sniper's back.

"I don't want to go outside! Stop Sebastian! This is inhumane! Rape! Fire! Something!" John was willing to try anything to get him out of this situation.

"Stop it, Richard." Sebastian hissed lowly. No one would come to his rescue, anyways, but there was no need to cause any trouble in the building. Surprisingly, some people actually lived in the lower flats. The walls had to be impossibly thick.

"You're overreacting." John calmed down, but that, as he knew, wasn't always a good thing. He stood in the elevator with a full grown man hiked up on his shoulder. Sebastian wished this was a one time thing, but it wasn't and he'd had more than his fair share of having to carry Jim in and out of the building for an assortment of reasons. Sometimes he, too, went kicking and screaming. Fortunately, he was usually on drugs and incoherent. John was not and he wasn't okay with this.

"You'll just listen to whatever Jim says, won't you?" John demanded. "I don't even think you have a mind of your own. You're not a man. You're a dog. And not even a good dog!" He had adapted parts of Jim's personality as well, it seemed. That wasn't completely surprising. Sebastian had began to wonder what sort of system he had made to be able to survive Jim. Cowardice was the best choice, but like Sebastian, John hadn't done that. He stayed out of the way, of course, but he wasn't afraid. The sniper wasn't sure who it was worse for; John or Jim.

"A good dog wouldn't get hit by his owner."

"You can say whatever you want, Richard. You're going outside." Thankfully, Sebastian was steady against vicious words.

"Why do we have to leave, Sebby?" John purred pleasantly, rubbing his fingers toward the waistband of the man's pants. "We can just stay here and, you know, have sex." He suggested seductively. Sebastian knocked his hands away pointedly.

"We're going outside." He assured the man firmly once again. John went back to kicking and screaming. Once outside, he stopped. For a moment, Sebastian thought he had fainted, but fortunately, he hadn't. He was just too afraid to move. That wasn't much better, but at least he was responsive. He set the blonde doctor on his feet and waited patiently for him to come back to his senses. After a few painfully long minutes, John seemed to realize that there was nothing to be afraid of. Or at least he remembered he wasn't an Agoraphobic. He heaved a few breaths, filling his lungs with the sweet, cool outside air, and smiled.

"T-this isn't that bad." He admitted, reaching out to grab Sebastian's arm. He steadied himself a little, clinging to the man for support as he took in the sights he had seen from his glass room he'd been showed off in. That was what it was, after all, John just didn't know it. A cage of phobia and a leash of lies. It was a coin flip today. John might recognize something that would jump start his memory. If anything would, seeing Holmes would, but that wasn't an argument he would make with Jim. He'll do as he was told and take John to the coffee shop. Sebastian gently took the doctor by his hand, ushering him down the sidewalk calmly and casually.

For the most part, John appeared to react just as Jim had assumed he would. Since he didn't actually had a reason to be afraid, he wasn't. To him, it was probably an act of magically healing which would only drive him further to believe Jim and his lies. Sebastian wondered if it was possible he would never remember.

"I don't remember why I was so afraid," John murmured, his eyes searching every inch of the landscape that was in sight. To him, he'd never been outside. He couldn't remember anything before the accident and he'd been in the flat for an entire year with only the view from the top floor as his outside. It should have been fantastic, but John's memory proved to be a fighter and everything just seemed familiar to him. It didn't seem to have been as long as Jim told him it was.

"Coffee?"

"That sounds fantastic, actually." John agreed. Sebastian opened the door for him, allowing him in first while the sniper looked for any sign of the Holmes. There was no clear sign of him yet, but if Moriarty had said he would be here, he would.

Sure enough, he showed.

"John." John didn't respond. He didn't even look over his shoulder. He simply snapped the lid back onto the cardboard cup and passed it to his boyfriend. The tall, even slimmer appearing male took two swift steps towards them, attempting to check that it really was John Watson before he jumped to conclusions. He obviously was.

"John!" Louder this time and he still didn't notice. Sherlock hurried through the shop toward them. Only then did John noticed the stranger was headed for them. He pursed his lips in confusion, but he didn't recognize him. Sebastian nearly didn't recognize him. Jim was right; the man had no idea how to take care of himself. He was thinner, paler, his clothes were dirty, and his face was shallow. John responded in his medic way; he frowned sadly at the man. Before any words could be exchanged, Sebastian caught him hard in his sharp, pale face with unforgiving knuckles.

"Sebastian!"

"John-"

"He was coming at you." Sebastian grunted, grabbing the short man firmly around the arm to keep him from tending to the injured man. Sherlock didn't seem to notice his busted lip, though. He was too busy staring at the pair of them in disbelief.

"You know Jim would have a fit if I let anything happen to you. Let's go." The sniper insisted, dragging John away from the stunned Holmes. Sebastian really need to stop doubting Jim. It wasn't worth anything. He glanced back at the bizarre stranger, but continued to be utterly clueless to who he was. It didn't matter. Sherlock now knew he was alive and Jim would start his new game.

"John."

Part One  
>Holmes Don't Cry<p>

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do with his feelings. So, like all other times, he shut them off. They weren't helpful. They weren't going to show him where John was nor how to get him back. The letter had led him back to the coffee shop. He stuck around long enough, bloody face and all, to discover that Moriarty had given the letter to the barista. Her description had been awful at best, but it was undoubtedly Moriarty. He must have known, and expected, that Sherlock would track it back to this cafe. Unfortunately, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure why. Was Moriarty simply taunting him? John was alive and he was with Moran. He was happy with Moran? For normal people, that meant giving up, or at least allowing him to be happy, but that wasn't the case.

Sherlock refused to believe it. John was alive and there was something wrong. He wasn't himself. He seemed to have healed completely from the accident and there were a few faint, leftover scars where he had, indeed, been hurt. They were all old, though, at least a year. They weren't hurting him physically, then. Moriarty could be torturing him mentally. His skin was so pale, he had to have been inside for the last year. That would explain why no one had seen any sign of him. He was in good health, however, meaning he wasn't being kept anywhere cramped or dark. It didn't have to be, however. Being kept anywhere for too long was bound to have some sort of affection on John's mental state.

Stockholm Syndrome, of course. Moriarty kept John cooped up for so long and pretended to care about him for the length that John now thought that he actually loved the man. That was the sick sort of thing he'd do. Moriarty wouldn't even need a reason. He did of course, Sherlock just didn't know what it was yet. He would have to wait, but he didn't want to wait. John was only going to get worse. Still, he forced himself to make do. If he was keeping John locked up, it was no coincidence that he had ran into him today. If he knew, then so did Mycroft. Lestrade, slow as always, wouldn't be far behind. They were constantly getting in his way.

_He__'__s__alive__, __Sherlock__. __Now__eat__. - __MH_

He wasn't hungry. Mycroft was up to something. He never texted when he could call. Just because John was alive didn't mean he was safe and it didn't mean they could relax.

_I__'__m__sending__Lestrade__over__. -__MH_

_You__can__'__t__help__him__if__you__'__re__dead__. -__MH_

Sherlock ignored him. Mrs. Hudson was out and Lestrade wasn't getting in. He knew how much his body could take and he had no intentions of leaving John's rescuing up to anyone else. Time was running thin. He didn't have time for all those needless things. His clothes were perfectly fine, he washed his face only this morning, and he had a cup of tea and a cocktail of vitamins yesterday. He had no idea what Moriarty was doing to his John. He couldn't risk his train of thought with something like food.

Moriarty wouldn't want something as simple as a ransom. There was no sign of the chip in the ruins of the theater. Sherlock had to widen his reasoning. If Moriarty had it, then he was after something else. If Mycroft had it, Moriarty was still after it and this was his brother's fault. If he was left out of this because of Mycroft, he was going to be furious. Mycroft didn't care about John! He hadn't even put through any effort to look for him. It didn't matter. Regardless of Mycroft's position in the matter, Sherlock was going to find him first.

His phone rang. There was no hesitation between the noise and Sherlock's answer. He was expecting it completely.

"Hullo, Sherlock."

"You should tell your dog to be careful."

"Oh, that's right! You ran into my little pets today. Oops." Moriarty hummed with laughter.

"John is not your pet."

"Ooh, Jim, please fix it for me. Fix it for me, please Jim. I can't stand them anymore. I can't stand living with Sherlock _Holmes_anymore. I can't stand his habits. I can't stand his deductions. I can't stand him _invading_ and _smothering_ every aspect of my life! Will you fix it for me, Jim? Please." The psychopath's voice cracked over the phone worse than any whip could. He tried not to imagine the words coming out of John's mouth. Moriarty was a liar. It was one of the many things he was good at.

"Why should I believe you?" Sherlock insisted casually. "Let me talk to John."

"Do you really think he wants to talk to you? Do you really want to hear him tell you to piss off?" Moriarty giggled.

"Yes." There was nothing that could be said to him that would stop him from coming. John could beg him not to come, or shout at him, or even try to convince him that he really did hate him. It wouldn't stop him. However, that wasn't what he wanted. He just needed to hear John's voice. It would help him distinguish whether or not he was in trouble and hopefully, his state of mind. Anything was helpful right now. Sherlock wouldn't admit that hearing his boyfriend's voice after so long would keep him sane just a little bit longer.

"Well it's too bad his mouth is rather busy right now. Don't worry, Sherlock. You can still talk to me." The man assured him. Sherlock didn't respond for a moment. What was Moriarty doing to his John?

"Fine. Where is he?"

"Oh Sherlock. Don't be boring." He hummed. "I've been waiting an awfully long time to play with you. Had to wait for my wounds to heal. Quite unfortunate I didn't get anyone in that one. My bloody pet isn't good with explosives." Moriarty sighed heavily. "It wasn't completely lost. It did make your pet realize how much trouble you are." He tacked on pleasantly.

"What do you want."

"You're not listening." The voice sang. "He doesn't _want_ you! You've hurt him, Sherlock. You're so emotionally distant you can't even understand why he left. I'd almost feel bad for you."

"I don't care. I'm taking him back."

"_Jim__?" _That was John's voice. Bile rose in Sherlock's throat. Maybe that tea had been a bad idea.

"Hold on, Sherlock. Yes, love?"

"_Aren__'__t__you__joining__us__? __Sebastian__'__s__getting__desperate__." _Sherlock wanted to yell over the phone until John came back to him.

"In a minute. Daddy's almost done here." It was too far away. He wrote down everything. If John was trying to get a message to him, he was going to find it.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I must be going now. My boys need me."

"Why did you call." The detective insisted and the criminal laughed.

"To watch you dance." The line dropped, saving Sherlock from having to listen to anymore of his taunting voice. Of course, it echoed in the back of his head, drowning out any remains of John's voice. Then he received a picture. His focus was instantly on his John, laying nude on his side with the stranger's arm around his waist; Moran. The picture made them appear as though they belonged cuddled together. It was wrong. John was sick. It didn't count.

That part was obvious, though. It was the background he was interested in. They were in a glass room of some sort. By what little he could see, they were very high up. He could find John based on this. He was sure of it.

"Sherlock," Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, eyeing the older DI sharply. He glanced toward the door and then back again. Mrs. Hudson was still out. How did he get in?

"John gave me a key," muttered Lestrade, shaking the loop of keys gently. "Before- you know. Said I should use it if he's not around to get you out." At the time, he'd probably been suggesting it for when he was out with Mycroft. Sherlock wasn't happy, but he promptly ignored the man and began his important work. He'd pick pocket the key from him later. He couldn't have the locks changed. What if John came back?

"Mycroft sent me." He began. "And you probably already know that. Look, Sherlock, John wouldn't approve of this self destructive behavior and you know it."

"John wouldn't approve of your smoking, either." Sherlock answered back swiftly and unforgiving. It was getting harder for Lestrade to put up with him. There was no point in trying to convince him of anything with words. There was only one way he'd get Sherlock to do anything. He ripped the phone from the man's hand and the forced himself between the taller man and the wall he was working on. Sherlock glared at him, unwavering and slightly terrifying.

"Move." He instructed.

"I want to help you. I am your friend, Sherlock." Lestrade insisted firmly.

"No. You're not. You're an annoyance. Get out of my way, Lestrade." If there was one thing that could be expected from Sherlock, it was that he always got what he wanted. Lestrade wasn't trying to prevent him from that. He just wanted to make sure he didn't die first. Mycroft had sounded worried over the phone, as worried as a Mycroft could sound.

"I'm not going anywhere until you listen to me. You're not the only one that cares about John. I know you want to find him, we all do, but it will be a lot easier if you let us help you."

"I don't need help." Sherlock sniffed.

"No. John does." The inspector reminded him sharply. The detective knew that, though. Sometimes he just needed to hear things out loud to realize how bad they really were. It was one of the many reasons he thought better with John around. Sherlock didn't offer a counter argument, which was as good as any white flag from the man. Lestrade gave a curt nod that spoke a silent 'good'.

"I'm going to make you some tea and you're going to drink it. Then we'll get you something to eat." Still no response. That was what Lestrade wanted to hear. He slowly moved out of Sherlock's way, as if the man would lash back if he moved too quickly. He made his way around the cluttered, filthy kitchen. It was worse than he had ever seen it. It made sense, though. If Sherlock wasn't taking care of himself, he wasn't taking care of the flat. Sherlock needed John.

Lestrade brought him a cup of tea and Sherlock watched him sharply as he drank, obviously demanding that the man leave since he was doing as he was told. Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was fast asleep, leaned up against the wall where he worked. Lestrade felt a little bad for having to drug him, but it was the only way to get him to go to sleep and stay asleep. He'd be upset when he finally did awake, but they'd deal with that then. Lestrade dragged the man by his waist through the flat and to his bed.

There wasn't anything else he could do at the moment. If he even tried to straighten up anything, he didn't relish the idea of finding anything in the mess. Lestrade glanced at the phone he had confiscated from Sherlock. He couldn't help himself. If Sherlock was hiding anything from them, they needed to know about it. There weren't any texts from John, or Moriarty, but there was a picture.

"Oh, John," Lestrade breathed.

Sherlock awoke to the sound of his phone. He scrambled for it instantly and was met with a irritated alert. Eight new messages. Six of them were pictures. The first was a message.

_Celebrating__a__year__without__you__. __Congrats__. _

The first picture was of John and the henchman locked in a heated embrace on the sidewalk. More taunts, but more locations as well. The title read '_Sebby__likes__kissing__too_'.

The second was of John seemingly being flirted with in a bar by a stranger. '_Tsk__tsk_'.

The third had said stranger being held down around his neck and against the bar by Moran. The crowd had parted to get out of the chaos and John stood nearby, holding his face with obvious embarrassment, but smiling. '_Dont__worry__were__protective__of__him_'.

The fourth had John standing on the bar top. His arm was firmly around Moriarty's waist and the other was in the process of holding up a glass and sloshing it all over the place. Moriarty was holding him balanced. '_John__loves__everyone__in__this__bar_'.

In the fifth, John had swept Moriarty back and was passionately kissing his neck. Sebastian was holding them steady to prevent either, or both, of them from taking a dive off the bar. '_But__especially__me_'.

The last was taken that morning. John lay sprawled on a couch with his head in Moriarty's lap and a washcloth over his face. Moriarty didn't appear to be in much better condition. '_Sherlock__hated__cuddling__'_.

The final message was a video. The sniper appeared first. _"__John__'__s__happy__now__, __Holmes__." _The camera turned away to face the two drunk, short men. John clung to him pointedly. _"__Yeah__. __So__you__betta__leave__us__alone__, __you__creep__,__" _he slurred. Moriarty giggled loudly and John proceeded to kiss him heatedly into seat of the cab. The video stopped there.

Moriarty had obviously gained John's trust and convinced him of his lies. He just had to be reminded that Moriarty was an insane criminal and avid liar. He knew the man was trying to get a rise out of him, but it wasn't going to work. In the meantime, he was being led directly to John. He hurried out of bed and was met with a box of take out. Lestrade had fled, as he very well should have, and Sherlock returned to his bad habits.

Part Two  
>Cracks in the Ice<p>

The defenses Mycroft had nearly finished putting up were instantly struck down again. He'd been expecting the worse and prepared himself for an assortment of bad news from John's death to having to learn that he had been tortured. However, no matter how much he prepared himself for learning that this was John's choice, it still proved to be painful. It wasn't surprising, though. They had put an awful lot of pressure on the man when they tried to make him choose and mixed with the danger of living with Sherlock, knowing Mycroft, and being close to Lestrade; it was only a matter of time before it became too much. Could he really believe things were better with Moriarty, though? As far as anything was known, he wasn't actually assisting in any criminal activity. Supposedly, Moriarty wasn't a psychopath all of the time.

He wanted to know it wasn't true, but it was hard with all the evidence. Sherlock was convinced there was something else going on, but he knew his brother simply didn't know what to do with his betrayed trust. It was unfortunate that the one person Sherlock came to believe in turned away from him. He'd been worried about this in the beginning. Mycroft had to talk with John. He just needed to understand and then John was free to do whatever he wanted with his life. He also needed to be warned. If John willingly participated in Moriarty's deeds, then he would be targeted just as Moriarty was and he wouldn't be given special treatment.

Mycroft, despite knowing it was no good, watched any and all video of John out on the street with Sebastian Moran. The man was dangerous and armed. If he wanted to talk to John, he would have to do it without the sniper around. Attempting to approach them now would turn into a fight and there was nothing proving that Moran wouldn't just shoot John. Just because John was happy didn't mean he was safe. He couldn't find anything out of the ordinary, though John did seem a little apprehensive to be outside. That was a little strange, but it wasn't hard evidence.

"Sir, someone left this." Anthea, as perfect and decent as she always was, played the message on his office phone. It hadn't rang. Why did he have a message?

"_This__is__a__message__for__Mycroft__Holmes__," _That was John's voice. Mycroft didn't show any response to it, though, even after all this time.

"_From__Jim__Moriarty__. __For__some__reason__he__thinks__you__'__ll__listen__to__me__. __Look__, __I__know__you__pride__yourself__on__being__calm__and__collected__, __so__much__that__Jim__calls__you__the__Ice__Man__, __but__just__drop__it__. __Last__time__you__and__he__met__, __you__took__it__. __Please__, __just__give__it__back__. __I__don__'__t__want__him__to__hurt__you__." _

Mycroft cleared his throat. He knew perfectly well what Moriarty was after, but he couldn't allow it. If he was given what he wanted, dozens of innocent people would die. If he didn't, John might be killed. This wasn't a situation he could debate on. Regardless of his feelings for John, his life was not worth anymore than anyone else's and they outnumbered him.

"What do you want to do?" She questioned firmly. Want? Want was a completely different concept. Mycroft didn't do anything he wanted to. He wished people would understand that. He thought about it for a moment before giving a simple shake of the head.

"Put surveillance on the flat." He instructed, as if they hadn't been doing that already. If Sherlock found out where John was, they'd have hell to pay.

"And Watson?"

"We must assume that he is working with Moriarty. Any suspicious activity will be logged with the rest." Mycroft informed. She looked away from her phone, utterly unconvinced, before leaving him alone in his office. It was unfortunate his relationship had to end this way. He knew the odds were against him in the beginning, but he didn't think he'd lose to Moriarty. He hadn't even known Moriarty was playing. Sherlock was right, though, something seemed off. He wanted something to be off.

He played the message again. It was impossible to tell whether or not he was being held hostage. John wasn't the kind to plea for his own life especially if he knew others were in danger. Moriarty liked to hear himself talk, so if that was the case, John knew other people were at risk. That was plausible, but John's phrasing just seemed wrong somehow. It sounded unnatural to the John he knew.

_Sherlock__'__s__asleep__. -__GL_

_And__I__found__something__. -__GL_

When John was in danger, rivalries will be put aside. Sherlock didn't seem to understand that, but Lestrade did. Despite them doing their best not to spend too much time together, jealousy still boiled between the three men. Mycroft was glad he could count on the DI to tend to his brother when he couldn't. He received a message from Sherlock's phone.

Mycroft sucked in a sigh. That was the proof if there was any. The awful, terrible proof. He thanked Lestrade curtly and turned his attention to lighting a cigarette. Before he knew it, he'd ground out five of them into the tray on his desk. He stopped himself from lighting another one, shoving the box in his desk drawer and took a few breaths of the smoky air. It wasn't his fault alone, but it felt like it. Even if he did give Moriarty what he wanted, it didn't mean John would come back. If Sherlock ever found out, though, their already stressed relationship would break. That was, if Sherlock didn't break first.

_It__'__s__not__the__danger__, __Ice__Man__. -__JM_

Moriarty wasn't watching him. Though Mycroft would have felt better if he was. He simply knew what hurt the most. He did the smart thing and didn't respond to the taunts.

_It__'__s__the__secrets__. _

_You__should__see__him__with__Sebby__. __It__'__s__adorable__. __They__do__say__you__should__buy__two__cats__to__keep__each__other__company__. _

Mycroft wasn't sure what he was hoping to achieve with this. It wasn't getting him any closer to convincing the Government to hand over the chip. That would never happen. He was sure the psychopath just liked to show off his power.

_They__tell__each__other__everything__._

_The__little__DI__and__his__wife__problems__. __Sherlock__and__his__cases__. __And__what__of__you__?_

_You__like__cake__._

He could almost hear Moriarty's laughter in the room. It wasn't as if he didn't want share, but as this proved, it was much more complex and far more dangerous than people realized. This situation was bad enough without John knowing anything else. Whether it was about him or about his job, the less he knew, the safer they both were. John understood that. Or at least, Mycroft thought he had.

_Sebby__will__be__so__disappointed__when__we__have__to__put__John__down__. -__JM_

"I'm so sorry, John."

The door opened and Lestrade appeared in the frame. He held up a bag with take away and forced a smile through his pain.

"You gotta eat, too, Holmes," he insisted, setting the box before him on the desk. Lestrade seated himself on the other side of the desk, obviously intent on staying there until Mycroft ate something. Unlike Sherlock, who simply refused to eat, Mycroft was slightly more difficult to deal with. The few times he'd met with the older Holmes face to face, it was obvious his weight was all over the place. He was torn between not eating and eating too much. The smoke in the room alerted Lestrade that Mycroft wasn't doing any better than him.

"Thank you." Mycroft murmured, though he made no move to reach for the food. His phone went off, but the man only brushed it into his desk drawer. Lestrade watched him with pale, bagged eyes. It was a few more minutes before either of them spoke.

"This isn't John." Lestrade insisted.

"He's made his choice." The Government answered simply.

"Have you talked to him? The older man insisted sharply. Mycroft played the message on his machine and Lestrade's eyes never left his. His eyes responded to the voice, though and the DI swallowed back a mouthful of emotion.

"No." Lestrade said firmly. "Have you talked to him? Had a conversation. You know, where one person talks and the other listens and responds?" Mycroft frowned, just a little bit insulted. However, he hadn't spoken to John yet.

"I have not."

"Until I get a reason from John, a good, reasonable explanation, then I'm not believing it. I might not be an expert on Moriarty, but if I've learned anything, it's that this is exactly the kind of mind fuck that he likes to do to you two." He rose to his feet swiftly.

"Sherlock's going to find him, whether you help him or not, but if you really care about John, or Sherlock for that matter, you'll help him. You'll help _us_."

"It's not that simple." Mycroft tried to reason. Had it been anyone other than Moriarty, they had a system, but the situation was too complex for there to be a straightforward answer. If they put in all the work to get John back only to discover he didn't want to be back, then their efforts would be wasted and their already crumbling hopes smashed.

"You're a Holmes. You see things, and options that the rest of us don't even consider and then you laugh at us because you have three eyes in the land of the blind. I'm not asking you, Holmes. I'm not begging you. I'm telling you right now, you better do _something_. If anything happens to John because you're too _stupid_ to know when to stop being the government and start being a friend- no- a _lover_, then I will hold you responsible." He held the cold man's stare before taking for the door. He stopped before the door, though, turning to catch his rival again.

"And, I've been informed that I'll be required to take a leave of absence from work. So if you need me, I won't be at the Yard." Lestrade scoffed as a good bye. Mycroft shook away his feelings and regrets with a small adjust of the shoulders and head. He made a small adjustment to the files on his desk, though there was no attempt to order them, before helping himself to the bit of food left for him.

This wasn't anything new to Mycroft, after all. It would be easier now. He didn't have to make excuses to himself now that he knew John had made a choice. Caring was not an advantage and this was no excuse. He'd had a momentary lapse of judgement.

Mycroft quietly sighed. He always got the wrong end of circumstance.

Part Three  
>Clever Coffee Tables<p>

Lestrade was drawn taut. He was torn between working too hard and not working enough. Why did it always have to be one or the other with the Holmes? It was no wonder they hated each other. It was unfair that they were probably the only two people that could currently help John at the moment, especially considering his recent 'vacation' time. Without the resources of the Yard, he would have to work on his own. Not to mention he would have to keep track of the brothers. They'd run themselves into the ground if left alone.

He should probably start taking care of himself a little better, too. Lestrade gathered the box of cigarettes from his pocket and put them out of reach under his seat. He needed to get to John, too, even though he knew full well that Sherlock would find him first. Sherlock didn't need any help and certainly wasn't going to accept any help. Lestrade knew from experience that he would never work well with Sherlock. He didn't need to get to John first, he just needed to make sure he was okay when he got back.

Lestrade didn't believe for a second that John willingly went with Moriarty. He would probably need medical treatment when he returned. Mycroft would handle that, however, as he had done the time before. Not for the first time when placed up against the Holmes, Lestrade felt rather useless. He knew when John returned the thing he would like to do is sleep in his own bed, in his own home, and Lestrade knew Sherlock hadn't stepped a foot in his flatmate's room since his disappearance. It was probably due for a cleaning but he wouldn't get anywhere near the room with Sherlock home.

A good meal, then. Lestrade was not a cook by any circumstances. He supposed he had time to learn, but he wanted to be helpful. He wanted to get John back and he wanted the Holmes to know that this wasn't a problem they had to, or should, deal with on their own. He'd been dating John, too, and even had a chance. This was as much his problem as it was theirs and as soon as Sherlock found hard evidence that John was being held against his will, Mycroft would go to work just as hard as Sherlock was.

So there was nothing he could do to help John. Even if he did find out where Moriarty was, what was he supposed to do? He couldn't exactly barge in and demand his boyfriend back. He couldn't expect Moriarty to be alone and he couldn't expect to be able to take John away without a fight. Even if it was a mental one. He couldn't help John directly, fine, but he could help the Holmes. He could keep Sherlock alive and fed, he couldn't do it himself obviously, and keep Mycroft's hope alive until his little blonde love could be rescued. Considering who he was talking about, it was easier said than done.

Regardless, there was nothing more he could do for today. He felt uneasy simply going home and waiting. He was not a man who could idly wait aside when he knew there was something to be done especially when it directly concerned him. Now that he wasn't allowed back at work, he didn't know what to do with himself. Anything not productive towards finding John just felt wrong. However, sitting in his car, in the icy silence of loneliness wasn't much better.

Getting away from this place was the best idea at the moment. That would have been great, but he had no idea where he was. In fact, he hadn't even driven here, how on earth did his car end up here? Mycroft's power was startling sometimes. A quick search and he located a note under the sun visor with directions into a familiar road. Convoluted directions. He'd never find his way back, not that he particularly wanted to. He'd figure out how to contact The Government later.

One confused drive into civilization later, Lestrade's thoughts were no more clear. If Mycroft was right, which it was really up in the air considering neither brother was wrong often, and John didn't want to come back, what would he do? It was John's choice completely, but this wasn't John. He'd never known John to do something like this. In fact, the very idea that all three of them were baffled by the decision assured him that he wasn't alone in his reasoning. One of them would have noticed something, anything, that would have foreshadowed this, but there was nothing. People like John didn't just wake up one day and decide that they were going to closely associate with the likes of people like Moriarty.

If he had woken up after the accident and thought that was a good idea, then he needed to be checked out properly. He was probably suffering brain damage. In fact, that made the most sense so far. He might not remember everything, or see everything, or 'notice' everything, but Lestrade had the wonderful ability to remember completely useless things he had picked up over the years. The brain was a funny thing. He didn't remember much from the explosion, everything had happened so fast and so violently, but he knew it was possible John had suffered some damage. Maybe a piece of shrapnel was stuck in his head and it was causing a problem with empathy or something. If Sherlock could just talk to him, they'd know for sure.

He made it a total of two steps into his flat when there was a knock. Lestrade suspiciously peeked outside before deeming it okay to open. It was only Sally, though he doubted she was supposed to be near him while on 'vacation'.

"What are you-"

"Take it." She demanded, shoving a covered cage into his chest. She didn't even make sure he was holding it before letting it go, nearly causing him to drop it all together. He stared at her blandly for a moment before peeking into the cage and being firmly assured that there was a bird in it.

"Are you going to tell me why you brought me this thing?"

"It's Anderson's." Sally informed him sharply.

"Details, Donavon." That wasn't exactly a reason for him to have it.

"It was a gift for his wife. She's allergic. I can't get it to shut up. I haven't slept in two days. You're lonely. Enjoy."

"I'm not taking this." Why on earth did he want a bird? She mentioned it was noisy as if it would convince him to keep it. Lestrade noticed it was strangely quiet however, and he wondered if it was drugged.

"Take the bird now or I'm bringing you kung-pow chicken tomorrow."

"Fine." He wasn't doing anything important or anything. "I'll just take it back to a pet store." Sally was off of his stoop in a heartbeat, and now he had a bird. He uncovered the poor thing and settled the cage on his table. It was a tiny thing and certainly not one that spoke, even if it tweeted as if its life depending on it.

"I guess I definitely shouldn't name you John. You would probably get kidnapped." He opened the cage and it fluttered out in a flurry. "Not to mention you look nothing like John. And don't act like John at all. But you're tiny and strangely adorable, which is enough for me. God, she's right. I'm lonely." Lestrade decided it was some sort of finch and he probably shouldn't have let it out of its cage. It buzzed around the house in confusion, petite form crashing into everything. He was glad he didn't have anything breakable. After a few minutes, it wore itself out and roosted on top of the tv.

He made himself some food and attempted to put his mind somewhere useful. It didn't work. Instead of doing something important, he found himself debating his position. Maybe he should give up on John. When it came down to it, he simply didn't have a chance. He wasn't even sure Mycroft had a chance. Sherlock and John were already so close. Seeing Sherlock stressing over this so bad reminded him of the way the younger man had been before John came along and how much Sherlock needed his doctor.

If it meant being with John, Lestrade could put up with Sherlock and his constant meddling and antics. Could John, though? Could John hold up against the truly pitiful man? No, he decided. He couldn't, but that didn't mean he would give up so easily. He wouldn't know unless he tried. He was getting a little reckless, wasn't he? Maybe it was his midlife crisis. The little feathered creature hoped towards his plate. It was so tiny, Lestrade didn't even notice it had come to the table.

"I guess I've had my fun." He sighed patiently feeding the it a piece of bread from his plate. It seemed to have relaxed a little now that it had room to fly.

John was probably a good ten or so years younger than him, probably more if he was honest. He wouldn't be completely let down if he drew the short straw. He'd given it a chance and things went better than he thought they would. They would always be others, even if John was already so perfect. Who was he kidding? He'd probably throw in his hat after this.

The bird quietly perched itself on his hand and he smiled.

"I think I'll call you Sherlock. You're impossibly loud when cooped up, you apparently hate Sally, and all I have to do to get you to settle down is let you do whatever you want and give you something you like. Bread it seemed, instead of compliments. You're too small, though." Lestrade mused pointlessly. "And your beige belly." This was surprisingly calming. Maybe he needed something like this.

"We'll get him back. No matter who he chooses."

That night, Sherlock located Moriarty.

He went alone.


	7. Unstable The Rescue

John Watson: is Unstable

Notes: I'll be posting these in parts from now so I can get them up faster and the read is easier.

Part One  
>The Rescue<p>

It wasn't often John awoke after going to bed for the night especially after a rather fond night of activity between his two boyfriends, but the noise of Jim's cell phone roused him easily for no good reason. It wasn't his mobile though, so he only minutely raised his head from Sebastian's chest to see where the noise came from. He never bothered with Jim's phone and this time was no different. He was curious as to who could be calling at such an early hour, however. It was already six in the morning, but their life didn't begin until at least ten. Jim was a genius and therefore, partially nocturnal. Sebastian could sleep as if it were a switch that simply turned on and off in the back of his head and John was growing accustomed to doing the same.

Sebastian brought an arm around his neck though their height difference made it seem more like a choke hold than a loving embrace. Sometimes John wasn't sure that it wasn't. The man watched him, he knew. Sometimes it was simply to watch him, sometimes it was like how he watched Jim; as if John were going to strike him. The man was simply paranoid: John would never do that. Jim did enough of that to Sebastian all on his own. His smaller lover lay on the other side of the meat-barrier, all too innocent looking as he clung to Sebastian's other arm possessively and entangled both of his legs with one of his lover's larger legs. This picture was complete without him and John wondered sometimes if he really did have Sebastian to himself before they met Jim. Hopefully he would remember soon, though if it was bad, he wasn't fully sure he wanted to know. Why did he need to know the bad stuff, after all?

He couldn't go back to sleep now so John nudged Sebastian's arm off of him, heavy as it was, and climbed out of bed. The sniper grunted and frowned, but didn't seem to waken. They usually didn't. John tiredly exited the room and quietly showered. It was so peaceful in the morning. They were so high up, the noise of London down below was lost. Now was a time when Jim wasn't yelling, and the telly wasn't on, and Sebastian wasn't cleaning his guns, nor was the lift running, or any bizarre contraptions. He dried himself off and dressed lightly. Even though he wasn't nearly as afraid of being outside as he once was, John still preferred to be indoors.

A bit of breakfast and then he would start on the mess Jim had left in the lift. It was steadily becoming clear that he was not a professor, but rather something unsavory. John pretended not to mind and he tried not to think about the poor soul splattered all over the inside of the metal box, but it bothered him. Jim had problems. It was worse than just being bi-polar, too. He was mentally ill but it was so obvious John assumed there was a reason they weren't getting him help. Probably because he would murder them if they tried, but Sebastian didn't seem all that worried about it. In fact, he seemed to make it worse and even help him.

John wasn't going to help him, but he could pretend he knew nothing about it. He loved Sebastian and there had to be a reason he liked Jim, so he was content with turning a blind eye for now. It helped, just a little, that Sebastian assured him that the people they hurt were 'the bad guys'. And who knew, maybe the poor bastard whose blood was all over the lift was still alive. It was a lot of blood, but there was a possibility. He was out of his mind just considering things like this. Maybe, before his accident, he'd been okay with this. Maybe he'd helped. Of course, it was just another reason he didn't dare mention anything.

In the midst of his thoughts and cooking, John didn't hear the scraping at the door. The door was so rarely used because of the lift that he'd completely forgotten they even had one. The sound of the lock being picked was lost under the sound of eggs frying. The steps were just as quiet and the next thing he knew, someone was behind him.

"John," the voice was hushed, but completely out of nowhere and it was definitely not Jim's.

"Oh god!" he twisted around at once, taking the large, heated pan with him. The man was tall, nearly as tall as Sebastian, but thin as a stick. His pale features looked strangely familiar and John realized that he'd seen this man before. It was the same man that came at him in the coffee shop and Sebastian had punched him in the face. Sebastian had been right in punching him.

"Shh," the stranger motioned him to be silent. John inwardly panicked. He was being stalked. This man was stalking him and now he had come to do awful things to him.

"H-how did you get in?" he questioned quietly. He didn't know it was possible to break into this flat. It was not the smartest thing to do. This man was not very smart.

"There's not a lock in the world I can't pick, John," the man insisted rather proudly.

"Why do you keep calling me that? I'm not John. You have the wrong person and you need to leave right now. I don't want you to get hurt," John hushed back quickly. Knowing Jim, he'd probably get blamed for this too and John was not about to be on the wrong side of Jim's anger. The man looked confused, then he pursed his lips firmly together.

"It's okay, John," he said firmly, "I'm taking you home."

"You have the wrong person," John replied just as tensely.

"You have to tell me what's wrong so I can fix it." Oh god, he was a crazy person.

"You're in my house, that's what's wrong," John snapped a little too loud and hurriedly brought his voice down again. They were both silent for a moment, but there was no sound of anyone being awake.

"Is this really what you want? You want to stay here with Moriarty?" The stranger looked hurt.

"He is my boyfriend."

"I was your boyfriend," he responded with a broken expression.

"I've never met you in my life," John gasped, trying to make the intruder understand. "I don't know you. I'm not John. I live here. Please," he begged. "Leave."

"You're serious," the man stated with renewed vigor. "You honestly don't remember me."

"I've never met you!" he exclaimed as quietly as he could.

"I have to get you out of here." What? That wasn't what he needed to do at all! The man grabbed him around the wrist and John struggled to get free.

"No," he said a little louder. The stranger only pulled him harder. "No! Stop!" John swung the pan at him and it connected heavily. It got the man off of him, thankfully. He stumbled a few steps and held his shoulder in pain. John could only describe the look he was given as disbelief.

"John-" the man breathed heart brokenly.

"Get out." John warned. He was tired of playing this game. The intruder opened his mouth to argue, but he wasn't allowed.

"Get out! Jim! Sebastian! Help! Help!" A smart person would have ran for the door and begged that they got there first, and John was assured that this man wasn't smart. Instead, he tried to quiet him.

"Stop," the stranger hissed lowly. "I'm trying to help you," he insisted, but John didn't believe that. Sebastian was out of the room in a heartbeat, already armed and only in pants. Jim followed close behind, unsurprisingly less dressed. No one seemed to currently care that he was naked. He patted Sebastian on the arm heavily.

"Put it down, stupid. What's going on, Richard?" he questioned with a lazy yawn. John hurriedly moved away from the intruder to stand beside his safety. Sebastian lowered his weapon but placed a protective hand out to the smaller blonde man.

"He broke into the flat. There's something wrong with him. He keeps calling me 'John'."

"This is just Holmes, Richard. He's a little confused," Jim assured him. The stranger frowned.

"Sherlock Holmes? This is Sherlock Holmes?"

"He's really fallen from grace. Why don't you go home, love? Before a certain someone gets shot to death," Jim hummed slowly. Sherlock seemed to think about the suggestion. Sebastian's cold look promised him that if he wasn't careful, John would be out of the game. So he quietly made his leave, but his blue eyes warned of the cold fury that boiled in his mind.

o-o-o

Sherlock carried the information back to his brother with the intent of his help. It wasn't often he asked Mycroft for help, but this situation was different. John was lost but not in the way that they originally thought. He had no idea who he was and if Sherlock was right, Moriarty probably had him deathly afraid to go anywhere near him him. If he tried to go back and convince his little blonde doctor, he'd only be putting himself in danger. The very thought that Moriarty had made John afraid of him made Sherlock's skin crawl in a way it never had before.

If Mycroft's response of anything to go by, he was under the same feelings. Did Moriarty really think he'd get away with something like this? That they would just back off after something like this? Of course he wouldn't. That of course, meant that he would hurt John if they tried anything. He didn't have to threaten them for them to know that he would. That didn't change the problem and it didn't make them change their minds.

Lestrade's response was to curse like a sailor. Sherlock had a feeling he'd been holding that in for a while. Once he was done and had successfully riled himself up, they threw their rivalry straight out the window. After that, it was fairly easy to formulate a plan worthy of rescuing John from his mental hell.


	8. Unstable Escape Escape

After the break in, Moriarty didn't change the locks. Sherlock wasn't surprised. He was getting in over his head with his cockiness. The door was opened in half the time it had taken him the first time. Everything was perfectly timed, despite the unstable environment John found himself trapped in. It was nearly impossible to plan to work with Moriarty's schedule in advance, but by controlling outside sources, they created a window of time in which time could execute everything. Once entering the flat, they were all clear on the fact that everything could change in an instant. Fortunately, things ran smoothly so far and the flat was dark and empty. It was early morning, but if the CCTV cameras were anything to go by, Moriarty, & co., had gone to bed only an hour or two ago.

Sherlock proceeded to make small noises about the kitchen, careful not to make it seem too obvious or too loud. Just the smallest rustle of the kitchen and as expected, it roused the sleeping man. Sebastian wandered out of the bedroom to sleepily examine the source of the noise and make sure that it wasn't a dangerous situation. Lestrade surprised him from behind. He was fully awake instantly and a struggle ensured. The man was taller and bigger than him, but like their last fight, it didn't immediately assure his victory. It was slightly more difficult to keep their dispute quiet, however. Things would go much smoother if they could deal with them one at a time.

Fortunately, any stray shots were already silenced by the weighted down muzzle and Lestrade was relatively out of harm while he was behind the man. That didn't mean Sebastian wasn't decently flexible, catching him in the face more than once with the extension on his gun. Unlike last time, help was not welcomed. If Lestrade had a choice, he would have broken everything in the flat with Moran's face. That would be loud, however, and wasn't what needed to happen right now. Hopefully he'd get another chance later.

Lestrade caught the man's arms around his shoulders, pinning them up and locking his fingers together behind the muscular, tattooed throat. Sebastian retorted by throwing his entire weight back and smashing the smaller DI firmly against the wooden ground. The Holmes worried that the noise might have woken Jim too early.

Holy mother of all that was good- this man was heavy! Lestrade was sure he felt one of his lungs burst, but he didn't dare loosen his grip. He leveraged himself against the ground firmly and wrapped his legs around one of his victim's, successfully subduing him for the moment. Sebastian didn't remain that way long and was already working his way into a better position.

"Holmes," Lestrade hissed under his breath for either, or both, of them. Mycroft swiftly came to his assistance and one well placed wing tip left Moran unconscious. The DI waited until he was sure the man wasn't faking before letting him go and hurriedly pushing him off. Sherlock patiently shoved a needle into the sniper's neck. Lestrade didn't ask what it was. He hurried to his feet and breathed deeply. Every inch of his chest and back would likely be bruised by tomorrow.

"You kicked him in the face," Lestrade whispered as Mycroft placed a hand below his shoulder blades, pressing him into a better position to catch his breath.

"I did," Mycroft answered back.

"Thank you." Lestrade gave him a curt nod. The older Holmes only smiled minutely. Thankfully, the noise did not awake Moriarty and it was another fifteen minutes before the smaller man came searching for his best man. Unlike Sebastian, he was far more suspicious, cautious, and dangerous. Mycroft nonchalantly watched the sedated Moran, giving Moriarty no attention just yet.

"Oh. Sebastian. You stupid cunt," Jim yawned, but his face didn't expose any of his feelings.

"If it helps. He didn't go down too easy," Lestrade scoffed sarcastically.

"I should kill you where you stand, James," Mycroft reminded him carefully, as if the man had forgotten what he had done in the past. "I can't, obviously. You've likely done something to John and we can't risk it just yet."

"You mean poison?" Jim mused amusedly.

"Explosives," Lestrade added.

"Mental binds," Sherlock snipped.

"I haven't done anything to him. Well, maybe that last one, but I doubt you need me for that." The psychopath chuckled even as he plainly removed any reason for them not to kill him. Mycroft was in no mood for games, however, and given the circumstance it was no time to test his nerves, either. In the blink of an eye, he caught Jim on the handle of his umbrella, cutting through his skin with ease and leaving a long, red mark from the left side of his forehead, over his nose, and across the right cheek. The shorter male didn't even flinch but Mycroft made his point clear.

Moriarty lunged at him. Sherlock hadn't expected him to want a fight and instantly he knew that Jim didn't. What he did want, however, was for Mycroft to beat him up to keep John's pity and mercy. Even knowing this, Sherlock did nothing to stop it and Mycroft gave him exactly what he wanted. As long as Moriarty came at him, Mycroft struck him. He continued on until Jim was black and blue and swollen and even then, Mycroft wasn't satisfied.

Finally, Moriarty stopped and Mycroft shoved him into the wall with the tip of his umbrella. The shorter man smirked and laughed, face covered in blood, lip busted, and a tooth or two chipped. It was very tempting to rid the world of his threat now, but Mycroft resisted.

"Tie him to the banister. Tightly." He motioned to Lestrade with a small jerk of the head. The DI hurriedly tangled his adroit hands as tightly and awkwardly as possible in hopes of preventing him from escaping. If their warnings were anything to go by, Lestrade wasn't sure the zip ties would hold him. Mycroft nodded to his brother.

Sherlock hurried down the hall, swiftly but cautiously. The hope was that Moriarty wasn't going to blow up his own flat, but there was no telling. Everything was going smoothly so far, it was only a matter of time before they hit a snag. Sure enough, they did. Sherlock was in the room for a grand total of two seconds before he was backing out again. John steadily followed him, the hand pistol aimed firmly and unwavering on Sherlock.

"John-"

"Richard, I'm glad you could join us," Jim purred happily. John only removed his eyes from the man in front of him for a few seconds, glancing over the beaten-up Jim before swiftly looking over Sebastian and back again. It was clear he wasn't too happy about what they'd done to his fake boyfriends.

"John. Please. Put that down. We need to talk." Mycroft attempted to console the disoriented man. John's eyes darted to him and for a moment, almost looked thoughtful, as if he was going to consider it just because it was Mycroft.

"Richard." Then it was gone. "Don't. They're liars. They'll attack you as soon as you let your guard down," Jim insisted with a faux look of desperation.

"Moriarty's the liar here, John," Sherlock tried to persuade him. "We'd never hurt you."

"Look what they did to Sebastian, Richard. Do you really think they won't hurt you, too?"

"Moran would kill you the minute Moriarty told him to, John," Lestrade helpfully countered.

"Don't believe them, Richard," Sebastian groaned, attempting to pick himself back onto his hands and knees but it was obvious his body wasn't going to respond under the drug. Lestrade hurriedly pressed a foot into his back, just in case.

"Get away from him!" John shouted swiftly, carefully warning the man with his pistol. Lestrade cautiously backed away from Sebastian.

"What did you do to him?" he demanded.

"Sedation. It'll wear off. Just put the gun down, John. We're not armed. We just need to talk to you."

"Lies, Richard. That one's a crooked cop. That one has a blade in his umbrella. And that one doesn't need any weapons."

"John, please just listen," Mycroft used his very best presentation voice.

"Don't Richard."

"We want to help you John."

"They're going to hurt you, Richard." John appeared to be on the edge of a break down. His entire being wanted to believe the three strangers, but his mind was telling him that Jim was his safe haven. His body wracked with the small tremors that exposed his inner turmoil.

"For god's sake, you're name's not Richard, John! Moriarty's a psychopath! He did something to you. He made you forget," Lestrade yelled in frustration. This wasn't going the way they said it would. John wasn't remembering.

"Why would I do that, Richard? What could I possibly have to gain from that? If you won't believe me, you have to believe Sebastian. He'd never lie to you," Jim insisted, motioning to the limp man with a jerk of the head. Sebastian was fighting the sedation with tooth and nail, unknowingly clawing at the ground.

"I love you Richard," he managed to slur haphazardly.

"We love you, John," Lestrade tried desperately.

"I love you, Richard," Moriarty breathed gently.

"Stop calling me that!" John exploded suddenly. The room fell silent and grim as the little doctor desperately gathered his breath and thoughts. On the other side, the room held its breath. It was too close to decipher where John was tilting. The blonde man gripped his head in his hands, cautious with the gun in his palm. His choice became obvious when he focused the barrel on Sherlock once again, firmly and unflinching.

"My name's not John, you crazy cunt. I want you and your friends to leave me alone. I don't know what's wrong with you, or why you're stalking me, but it has to stop. The next time to come around, I'll let Jim handle you," he warned viciously. He motioned to the door with his gun.

"Now get out."

"John," Sherlock uttered, holding back any betraying emotion. John fired a single shot, inches above the mess of black hair.

"I said out. Or the next one goes in your face," he warned. His eyes held no mercy, or remembrance, for Sherlock. Mycroft placed a firm hand on his brother's shoulder, ushering him to come along. There was no point in putting themselves in danger. If John really didn't remember, then there was nothing stopping him from viewing them as intruders and attackers. They had misjudged John's mental state.

John kept the gun trained on them until the door was tightly closed. He cautiously and suspiciously waited for the sound of feet descending down stairs before rushing to Sebastian's side. He rolled him over quickly, checking his pulse and any wounds he might have received. John gently pressed his forehead to Sebastian's.

"Are you okay?" he asked worriedly. Sebastian managed a small nod and a gasp of 'yeah'. He'd be pretty badly bruised, but that wasn't unusual for him. John quietly kissed him, relieved that he'd be alright. He quickly moved to help Jim, knowing he wasn't nearly as used to being treated like this. The man didn't seem to mind, though.

"I'm so sorry, Jim," he murmured softly, checking his boyfriend's wounds to make sure none of them were too bad.

"It's fine, Richard. It's not your fault. Maybe one day you'll remember why they're crazy about you. Though I can see why everyone would be crazy about you."

"This isn't a joke, Jim," John demanded.

"I know. Just seeing you hold that gun makes me frisky," Jim giggled as if he was high on the situation. John hurried to the kitchen to fetch the first aid kit and a pair of scissors.  
>That was too close for comfort. Sebastian shot Jim a look and he was ignored. Things wouldn't have gone well for them if he had remembered. It was a wonder he hadn't remembered. The situation was getting worse. John cut Jim free from his binds and tended to his open cuts, a worried expression on his face the entire time. When he was done, he attacked the minutely taller man in a fierce hug.<p>

"Don't ever do that to me again," he warned angrily.

"Do what?"

"I know perfectly well you were capable of diffusing that situation before it got out of hand."

"They surprised me, Richard. What did you expect me to do?"

"No one surprises you, Jim," John reminded him pointedly. Jim only chuckled. "Help me get Sebastian back into bed. It'll probably be awhile before the sedation wears off."

o-o-o

_[ A man laughing, his face is flushed and the noise is deep and John finds it infective._

_A man laughing, a small, adorable laugh and a slightly curved pale lips that heats fire in John's belly._

_A man laughing, a small puff of a chuckle and a low rumble of the chest and John knows it's going to be okay._

_A man laughing: it's indifferent and forced, making John weary and unloved._

_A man laughing hysterically. The noise is so loud it drowns out any though John had and he only feels anger. How dare he laugh as if he'd won something. Did he think he could get away with this? Of course he could because he had. He had gotten away with everything. He'd played John as a fool, strung him up and made him dance and that made John vengeful._

_A man laughing as if he weren't a man at all, but an immortal beast that couldn't be touched by any means. John knew that wasn't true, though. John knew there was very little he said that was true._

_"I don't love you, you stupid cunt!"_

_"Watch me make your boyfriend's dance."_

_"Watch me break them, John."_

_"Watch me and know there's nothing you can do, you stupid, stupid little man."_

_But there was something he could do._

_He could start being John Watson again.]_

John opened his eyes calmly against the darkness of his room. It wasn't his room, though. It was a prison laced with lies and he was in bed with his warden and his guard dog. He knew exactly how long he'd been here and what they'd managed to convince him. Even more so, what he'd done under those convincing lies. John felt sick to his stomach. Then he felt angry like he never had before.  
>Moriarty had pushed his luck and it was going to cost him.<p>

o-o-o

Jim groaned softly as he awoke. He stretched himself out a little and wrapped his arms tighter around his sniper's arm. He pressed his face into the tanned skin, looking for some warmth, but there was none. Sebastian must have become cold blooded in the night.

"Seb," he whined, shoved the limb away from him. There was nothing to shove, he quickly discovered. Jim opened an eye and the space beside him was empty save the severed limb of his tiger. Sebastian was certainly going to have a hard time snipping without that. He sat up a little, unsurprised by the amount of blood soaked through the sheets and the marks on the floor where he was dragged across the carpet and out the door. His eyes fell on the little blond doctor seated at the end of the bed, watching him with the cold eyes of a soldier.

"I guess this means you remembered."

"You guessed right," John answered coldly. Jim chuckled to himself, and pressed a bloody hand through his hair that left marks over his forehead. He settled back in his bed a little, meeting the beige eyes with challenge.

"Where's Sebby?"

"I tied him to the sink, gave him a first aid kit, and told him how long it would take for him to bleed out. Let's hope he can stop the bleeding before he loses consciousness." John cocked the gun in his hand, making the noise echo through the quiet room. Jim hummed with amusement.

"Oh, John. You should know Sebby is a very hard man to keep tied up."

"Not as hard as you think. I'm a doctor, remember, Jim? I was an army doctor. If he wants to come and help you, he'll have to chew his own arm off. Well, I made it easier for him. I gave him a knife." He stood and brushed his knees off calmly. Jim swirled his head as if to prepare for a kill.

"You won't let him die. I know the kind of man you are." He smiled cockily, teasing the wounded corgi.

"Then you know the kind of man you turned me into." John cocked his weapon again, unneededly this time. Jim's smile fell.

"That's right, Jim. I remember everything. The bad and the good. You used me and toyed with me and humored me and you shouldn't have. Because you let me into your life, Jim. Not such a bright idea in hindsight, was it? I've seen you, Jim. I've seen you be human and now I know. You're not a man or a monster. You're a parasite. You know you're a parasite. I've watched you try to destroy yourself, I've seen you suck people into the black hole of your heart, I've seen you struggle and take it out on everything else. I'd feel bad for you if you had even the smallest amount of conscience." He approached the side of the bed and Jim watched him with the eyes of a psychopath. He was waiting for the perfect time to lunge, but John wouldn't give it to him.

"What? Do you want me to beg?"

"You can. I won't listen, but if it makes you feel better."

"So you're going to kill me, just like that? Come now, John. We both know you won't. Lies or not, you were happy and you know it."

"I was scared out of my bloody mind."

"Close enough."

"But you're right. I should. I should shoot you in the head right now and prove that I'm better than you by giving you a sweet, short, merciful death. But I won't." John fired a well aimed shot into Jim's knee. A look of pain wavered over the man's face, but he held firmly.

"That's it?" he laughed.

"Of course not. I'm going to call Mycroft and let him decide what to do with you." Another shot tore through his shoulder and blood ran down his arm. Jim's hand twitched violently against his will. Perhaps he shouldn't have shown John some of the things he had.

"Don't worry. I'll tell him not to kill you." A swift lash of the pistol rendered the man unconscious and possibly with a concussion. John hit him again, just in case, before parting from the room. He never wanted to be in this flat again, that was certain. Sebastian glanced at him from the kitchen, pale in the face and foggy in the eyes.

"John," he murmured in the same voice John had grown accustomed to in the last year. "I'm sorry." John shifted his shoulders and cocked his head.

"Not yet you're not." He approached the man, making sure he was still being followed with his eyes. Sebastian was still coherent, thankfully. John rummaged through the first aid kit, retrieving a syringe and needle. He inserted it into Sebastian's neck with a delicate touch, despite the man trying to yank away from him. He tossed it into the sink.

"That will keep you alive until someone comes to save you," John assured him, giving him a heavy pat on the back. He leaned in to speak into his fake boyfriend's ear.

"And just so you know, I hope you and he escape. I hope you escape and I hope you dare to come after me and my loved ones again. Because if you do, Sebastian Moran, I will make you wish I was as nice as Jim. And there is nothing, nothing Sebastian, in this world, or the next that would stop me."

And then John left.


	9. Unstable Fractured, Not Broken

John Watson: is Unstable

Part Three  
>Fractured, Not Broken<p>

Lestrade was worried. He was glad to have John back, ecstatic even, but it must have been traumatic for him. He knew it had been traumatic for him. Ever since Mycroft picked him up from off the curb outside of Moriarty's flat, John had acted strange. He had every right to, of course, but he refused to have anyone help him. He didn't want to see any doctors, or therapists, he barely seemed to want to seem them. Mycroft managed to talk Sherlock into staying with him while John got situated back at home. Lestrade agreed. John needed space and room to breathe and understand that everything would be okay now.

It was clear John was not in his right mind. Lestrade had seen the mess he had left behind. Moriarty and his henchman deserved it, but it was likely a huge strain on John's mental health. He didn't want to talk to anyone and though it was hard to get anything out of Sherlock, it was clear by his black eye that John wasn't interested in getting cuddly. Lestrade was sure it wasn't malice, though. John probably already regretted it, and most likely struck in panic. Greg wanted to know what they'd done to him, but if Mycroft knew, he wasn't saying anything. He expected Mycroft not to leave this unpunished, but again, the man wasn't speaking a word about the contained Moriarty.

It was torturous waiting to hear from John. Even when John did leave the flat, Mycroft watched him like a hawk now, it was more like watching a confused rabbit make circles before dashing back to safety. He would wandered out, make a small circle around the street and then go right back inside. Obviously he was scoping everything out. Eventually, Lestrade simply couldn't wait anymore. John needed help whether he was going to accept it or not. Greg managed to catch John on one of his few outings.

"John," he spoke carefully. John jumped and turned on Greg as if he'd pulled a gun on him. Seeing it was Lestrade, he swiftly came down, of course, but unfortunately it wasn't much friendlier. It broke the old DI's heart seeing the man he loved like this.

"Greg. Hi."

"Hi," Greg returned with a calming smile. It didn't calm John, though, but rather it made him for suspicious. "How are you doing?"

"Well, for the last year I was convinced I was an Agoraphobe so now everytime I go outside, I have a mini panic attack," he explained and Lestrade had the feeling John was bitter towards him. He preferred to think that it was towards 'them' for not rescuing him sooner.

"We can help you if you let us," Lestrade reminded him weakly and helpfully. It was a very bad idea to push John into doing anything right now and the DI didn't want to be on the end of one of his panics. It was all too well known that the short doctor was stronger than he looked.

"Yes," John sighed in frustration. "I know. I really do, Greg, but it's hard," he admittedly tensely, as if Lestrade would turn around and use the information against him. "I think everyone's out to get me and I can't stop. I don't know if they're not."

"We're not," Greg only suggested.

"Forgive me if I don't believe you," John barked back. Greg held up his hands in surrender. John sighed again, still incredibly frustrated with himself most of all.

"I'm sorry, Greg. I really don't mean it. It's just difficult, that's all. I just- a year is a bloody long time." He pushed his hair back, delicately thin lips curved into a frown.

"If you talk to Sherlock, could you tell him he can come back home. I didn't mean to punch him like that. He left his mobile in the flat."

"Yeah. Of course," Lestrade assured him gently. He wished he could offer more help, but he knew the more he pushed, the more John would retreat. He just needed space, Lestrade told himself, and tried not feel too upset. He couldn't help but feel guilty, and he knew the Holmes did too. They should have found him sooner so they could prevent this from happening.

"We actually kind of wanted to talk to you about something. Together," Greg insisted softly. The idea seemed to panic John, though. He was clearly terrified to be near any of them, let alone all of them and any attempt to make him would surely end up in fight that would rival even Moriarty's right hand. Thankfully, John seemed to calm himself down. He nodded quickly.

"You're right. We do. We all need to talk," the blonde agreed. Lestrade didn't like this anymore than he did and he doubted this conversation was going to go anywhere soon. It was too soon to try to make John do anything, but they were right. Something had to be said before anyone could properly help John. They were all walking on broken glass and in doing so were doing more damage to themselves than they were helping John.

"Can I come inside?" Lestrade asked softly, motioning to the door. John glanced over his shoulder nervously. He nodded again.

"Yeah," John answered lowly, unlocking the door to sooth his own worry and quietly allowing the detective inside. John went about making tea. At least he seemed calmer in his own home. He wouldn't uncover the windows, clearly, and any unusual sounds instantly drew his attention, but he was calmer. The Holmes appeared together. Lestrade was far too aware of Sherlock staying with his brother for the moment. They both found it necessary to complain to him since John was incapable of taking and handling their problems. Lestrade, admittedly, handled their problems a little differently and very well might have been making them worse.

The three of them sat closely together on the couch to allow John the comfort of keeping them all in sight. First came the awkward silence, each waiting for another to speak first. John helped it along gracefully.

"I know it's not fair for me to prolong this any further." Not that he had exactly planned for it to go this way. He hadn't exactly thought this out as Richard Brook. He glanced over the three crowded on the couch and nearly smiled a little. Before he could continue, however, Sherlock interrupted him.

"I agree," he gave a single, curt nod. Mycroft glowered at him from the other side of Lestrade. "It has been over a year and I think we've waited long enough," Sherlock continued without the slightest waver. Of course, one couldn't expect him to he faltered by his brother. John sighed with clear agitation. Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose. Sherlock was going to make John upset. Again.

"And considering you've lost a year, I doubt you're any further towards your choice then when you 'left'," Sherlock cleared his throat a little. This wasn't getting any better, but they were all hoping it was actually going somewhere. Often times, it was, but it was Sherlock and he did currently have hurt feelings so there was really no telling.

"So I have an unorthodox suggestion." That was in no way specific and only managed to make everyone else more anxious of his conclusion. Sherlock's methods were always unorthodox, but that never stopped him before. "It would be unfair to all of us involved to ask you to choose after the circumstances. You haven't had the time to consider and we were far too concerned with getting you back to even think what would happen when he finally did. While you were being held by Moriarty, you were under the assumption that you had two boyfriends." John visibly flinched at the reminder. Mycroft scolded his brother with a cold stare. He just seemed to be striving to make John uncomfortable.

"Taking that into consideration, I suggest that you continue to be romantically involved with all of us."

"Uh. Temporarily?" John offered up anxiously. He clearly wasn't completely on board with this. However, neither was Lestrade or Mycroft for that matter.

"More permanently," Sherlock assured him. John fell silent, torn between staring at Sherlock in disbelief and actually considering it. Sherlock was serious and clearly didn't see anything wrong with his suggestion. If it was for John, he could stand it. He would prefer to share him than lose him completely. Sherlock wouldn't admit it out loud, but without their help, it would have proved to be painfully difficult to rescue his best friend and lover. He didn't want to cause John distress and this seemed like the logical choice to prevent that. Along with the fact that his brother and the DI proved to have desirable traits and weren't completely awful all of the time, Sherlock saw no flaw in a polygamous relationship.

"It- would prove to be beneficial," Mycroft admitted after a moment. John's beige eyes closed passively and he held his nose between his index and thumb anxiously. Mycroft continued, however. It might not have appeared to be a reasonable answer coming from socially inept Sherlock, but it was. Mycroft could see the flesh behind the well thought out statement.

"Logically, it would be the best choice for you, John. Between the three of us, your needs are better tended to with clever timing. Gregory and I work very stressful and full jobs making it difficult to always be there when you need us to be, both emotionally and physically. Sherlock, however, does not. My brother and I are well known for being- emotionally distant. Gregory has proven he is very well not. I would be reasonable to this arrangement," he admitted, absently adjusting his cufflinks in a subconsciously nervous gesture. Only John could make him do unsure of himself. Fortunately, not many people could spot when he was nervous. Unfortunately, ninety percent of those people were in this room.

"I love you, John. And with that said, it is clear that I alone can not take care of you the way you deserve. Polygamous relationships have proved to be just as strong as traditional ones. I agree with my brother," Mycroft nodded smoothly, proving to be as understanding as ever. It was ridiculous at times, such as now for example. His reasoning was sound, though, as it always was, and that was unnerving, as it usually was.

"Greg?" John motioned to him, but didn't dare look at any of them just yet. It was hard to tell, but he almost seemed disappointed.

"Er," Greg wasn't entirely sure how to approach the subject. Out loud, it sounded insane, but thinking about it made it sound, well, less insane. After what John had been through, they had to do what was best for him. "I would feel better knowing that you're with someone I trust when I can't. And," he sighed patiently.

"Mycroft is right. As bloody usual. We all contribute differently and it was working well before. Everything was good, I thought, and you seemed happy up until, well," he trailed off.

"Sherlock is obsessive, and reckless, and brilliant and you clearly need that. He needs you to take care of him, and actually, we all kind of need that. I hate to admit it, but when we were losing hope, Sherlock kept looking and it's probably the only reason we found you and he obviously loves you. I've known Sherlock for years and I've never seen him take to someone like you. I mean, bloody hell, I didn't think it was possible that there would ever be anyone he would fight for. And Mycroft keeps us level. All of us. He keeps us level and safe and he won't show it, but he's probably more unsure of this situation than any of us. He keeps everything to himself because he thinks showing too much will put you in danger. I think it's good that Mycroft likes- loves. He loves you. I think it's great that you love him. It's- It's great that he's finally letting go a little. I'd- I'd be okay with this. I think I'd feel better knowing we weren't competing anymore and focus on more important things. God knows we would have known something was wrong sooner if we weren't so busy trying to- trying to bleedin' shag you," Greg huffed more aggressively than he had intended to. It was just as much as fault as it was the rest of theirs and it had gotten John in more trouble than he wanted to think about.

"I can't deal with this right now." John shook his head and pressed his face into his hands. Sherlock, and not for the first time when it came to John, was stung with guilt. John clearly wasn't ready for this, but it was likely he'd never be at this rate. Moriarty had a habit of doing more mental damage than physical and this time, it very well could be permanent.

"John," Sherlock tried with an invasive voice, doing his best to shake the man out of it with a scolding tone. John wasn't like this. He was stronger than this. It was the wrong thing to do.

"No, Sherlock! No! No! No! No Sherlock! No Mycroft! No Greg! No! I don't care! I don't! I don't want you anywhere near me! I don't want to hear your excuses! Or your explanations!" John was out of his chair swiftly and the little group of three sat in solemn, guilty silence like scolded children. The little blond leaned against the fireplace, gripping the shelf and quietly tilting his head down to calm himself and catch his breath.

"I- You left me there. All of you," John reminded them. "For a whole year. How could you do that? How could you just leave me with that psycho for a whole year? You know I'm so fucked up now that sometimes I start thinking 'hey,'" John threw his hands out a little. "'Maybe it wasn't so bad with Moriarty.' It was scary, sure, but it's bloody scary here, too, I just don't bloody notice it anymore. What was I fucking thinking?! Dating not one, or two, but three people would make enemies of national proportions. Do you know who they go for? They go for me. Arrested someone wrongly. I get attacked by their bloody family, or gang, or 'organization.' Put a psycho away? I get kidnapped to make you pay. And you don't have to do anything. You're the bloody fucking government. I get kidnapped just for fuckig ransom." John presses his forehead against the mantelpiece, shaking minutely.

"Everyone was after bloody Moriarty and I still felt safe. Sebastian would bleedin' kill anyone who came near me. He gave you a nice shiner, don't think I forgot." He blindly motioned to Sherlock.

"And yes, he's the bad guy. Do you know how fucking weird it is to see someone like Moriarty be- be- be domestic! 'He goes home and kills a puppy then plans the murder of someone and tops it off with having a nice glass of goat's blood'," John mocked.

"No! Fuck no. He just- he just watches telly. He eats food that Sebasti- Moran cooks. He reads the paper and complains about stupid bullocks and, god, is a person. And Moran, he's just in love and it's sad because he knows Moriarty doesn't comprehend it the same way he does. I mean, I was a little scared. Moriarty would fucking flip out for no reason and Sebastian showed up with bullet wounds for no reason, but it wasn't awful. I shouldn't have done what I did. I shouldn't have. I was overwhelmed and didn't think it through," John insisted to no one in particular. He shook his head and tapped his skull again the wood with regret.

"John, you're wrong," Mycroft said with an eerie sense of determination. "You're not Richard Brook. You're not in love with either of them. You're not meek, and you're not scared, and you're not this. You have to remember who you are. Not who Moriarty made you into. Richard Brook is a creation of Jim Moriarty. Of course he made you think he wasn't an abomination to the human species. He made you feel safe because that's what psychopaths do." He dared to stand, approaching the small man gently.

"We want to help you, John, and we will, but you have to let go of Richard Brook. I know they feel real and that's because they are, but that doesn't mean it was you. Nothing that happened there was you." He touched the man's shoulder gently and John turned to face him with a frown etched into his face.

"You are not Richard Brook. Had you been in your right mind, none of that would have happened. You would have escaped. You would have seen him for what he really was. You didn't do anything wrong." Mycroft gently pulled him closer, fitting his smaller form against his suit. John clung to the beige suit edges unconsciously.

"They deserved everything they got. That was the real John Watson. That was the man I know. The strong, smart man that would rather die than let anyone else get hurt by them. You really have no idea how many people you directly, and indirectly, saved the lives of. You're a fantastic, brilliant, amazing person. Please, please let us help you." He squeezed softly, finger tied together around the small of his back. John finally hugged back, face pressed firmly into his chest.

"I'm sorry Mycroft. I'm so sorry," John murmured softly, taking a relatively good grasp on his sanity again. Mycroft strokes the back of his head lovingly.

"It's okay. Everything will be fine now. Back to normal."

And ever so slowly, it did.


	10. Time is a Terrible Healer Different

Everyone Loves John Watson  
>Time is a Terrible Healer<p>

John Watson: is Different  
>Part One<p>

With help from his boyfriends, John began the slow pace of getting better. He still refused to see another therapist because he knew they would offer no help in a case like this. Sherlock's suggestion still baffled him, but the proof that it was actually helping was hard to argue. He was never alone and while some people would feel smothered after a while, it was just what John needed while he got better. Even though he knew Moriarty and Moran were in Mycroft's possession and not about to go anywhere ever again, he couldn't help but feel anxious that one of them would appear out of nowhere and snatch him off the street again. He wasn't afraid of being kidnapped. He was afraid of being kidnapped by Jim Moriarty. There was a big difference. No one else could evoke the kind of fear in the little army man like Moriarty.

While Sherlock was with him nearly all of the time, Greg and Mycroft made a habit of dropping by as often as possible and it was a good thing, too, considering John's mind still had flashes of mistaken identity. No, Mycroft was not Sebastian Moran and didn't look, act, or even dress anything like him, but 'Richard' thought otherwise. The smell of smoke alone could make John panic. And no, as much as Moriarty claimed Sherlock was like him, he was not, but again, Richard thought otherwise. When John awoke in the middle of the night from a much too real nightmare with a foreign arm slung around his waist and warm breath on the back of his neck, John's reasonable answer was 'get him before he gets you'. Fortunately, Sherlock's face snapped him out of it, but that didn't always stop bruised hands and scratched wrist from forming when John was desperate to get them off of him. Greg didn't face these problems and when John was hit with an episode, the DI could always bring him down.

For the first month, things were taken slowly. No one dared to do anything not initiated by John and 'dates' consisted of two or three of them lounging on the couch in 221b. Slowly, John returned to some resemblance of the way he was before and before long, he fell back into his usual pattern, dates and all. He returned to his real job at the clinic, he went shopping, and helped Sherlock with his cases. His boyfriends fell back into their pattern, as well, but with less ferocity. Lestrade was right; they were much calmer when they weren't competing, even to the point that they could comfortably be in one another's company. John suspected that it the idea that he could be with no one put things into perspective for them. It was comfortable and John realized he had grown accustomed to being involved with all of them. So when Mycroft and Greg invited him to the same restaurant at the same time on the same day, he didn't think anything strange of it. It was great that they were getting along so well and it proved to make all of their lives a little easier.

Sherlock had left earlier that day on another case. John had quickly discovered that the man had put off nearly all of his cases for over a year so he could put his concentration and resources on finding John. Greg had been so stressed out that the Yard had to forcibly make him take a vacation. Anthea assured him, complained really, that Mycroft hadn't exactly concentrated on his work as much as he needed to. On the flip side of the coin, they were working twice as hard as they had been before he left. John's influence proved to be staggering in both the best and worst of ways.

John dressed appropriately for their restaurant of choice, armed himself, and left the flat with only minimum anxiety. It was nice getting out of the flat again. After overcoming his false agoraphobia, he wanted nothing more than to be outside all of the time. He wouldn't dare take a cab, but the little spot was within walking distance and John decided he could use the exercise anyways. Upon arriving, it was clear that his two boyfriends weren't getting off to a good start. Clear to him, at least. Anyone walking by probably had no idea considering Mycroft's poker face and Lestrade's fantastic ability to deal with Holmes. If Sherlock's complaining was anything to go by, Mycroft and Greg had formed some kind of friendship while he was gone.

"Is something wrong?" John questioned worriedly as he approached the pair. He checked his watch to make sure he wasn't running late. He wasn't.

"Not at all," Mycroft assured him at once. It was painfully clear all three of them were worried about making him unneededly upset. John was grateful for it, but he wasn't a fragile little doll. Of course, that may very well be the reason they were worried. Greg smiled but it appeared a little forced. John flinched at the little reminder of Moran's awkward show of teeth. It made the little man suspicious of his boyfriend's intentions instantly, but not nearly as much as he would have just two months ago. He was coming along well.

"Just a little misunderstanding," Lestrade admitted.

"Misunderstanding?" Surely he hadn't misunderstood. There wasn't exactly a lot to misunderstand, so John assumed it was between the two of them. Hopefully this wasn't going to go terribly. John was hoping that this wasn't a crude attempt at convincing motives against Sherlock. He would not be okay with that.

"We've sorted it out," Mycroft assured him and John put it out of his mind for now. He wanted to avoid conflict as much as possible. If being trapped with Moriarty had showed him anything, it was how terrible domestic abuse could be. The circumstances were drastically different, especially considering how likely it was Moran was a masochist and actually craved negative attention from the other, but John wasn't completely sure how well he would respond to head on conflict right now. He was led inside and the little hostess showed them to the table. Fortunately, it wasn't a booth and his boyfriends could sit to either side of him comfortable. This was nice. John would admit that he was more comfortable with this situation which was far more than he thought he would be.

Moriarty could be domestic and John knew that. It wasn't completely unusual for some of his traumatic experience to be not so traumatic. Technically, none of it was traumatic since he had thought it to be his average day. John faced complex feelings about the experience even now. Part of him still believed that Moriarty had been good to him. Talking usually helped, but it would take more than a couple months to break from the mindset of being someone else.

John couldn't recall a time when he had been around Greg and Mycroft like this. It was nice, though. Despite their 'misunderstanding', there wasn't any problem between them. Mycroft ordered wine and they discussed Sherlock's current case. Discussion trailed into some current events, of which Mycroft was more than happy to discuss, then into the sports John had missed, which Lestrade gladly informed him of, and finally why a single action revolver was still a perfectly acceptable weapon to use in the modern age, in which Mycroft and Lestrade pretended not to be worried about John's changed interest.

Only halfway through their dinner, and the bottle of wine, Sherlock appeared on complete accident. John wasn't completely surprised by his appearance, but Sherlock seemed to be. He hurried into the restaurant and instantly made himself look as nonchalant as possible. Pale blue-green eyes spotted them within seconds and before the hostess could speak to him, he was taking swift steps towards their table. He pulled up a chair between John and Lestrade, where he didn't fit, and forced a smile.

"John," he greeted, slightly out of breath. If John had to guess, he probably had been running. "Mycroft," Sherlock continued, lacking most of the malice he usually had towards his brother. John had definitely helped with that. "Lestrade," he finished and flickered a menu up to hid his face.

"Uh. Sherlock?" John questioned pointedly and onky mildly irritated. Sherlock peeked around the edge of the braided paper corner a little, but kept his face fairly well hidden. "What are you doing?"

"Just finishing up the case. That's all," Sherlock answered as if it were a perfectly safe and acceptable answer. He scooted a little closer to Lestrade to make conversation easier. "You're murderer is about to walk through that door. You're not doing anything important. Arrest him."

"Sherlock," Greg scolded him in a hushed tone. "I actually was in the middle of something."

"Well, okay, fine, but you weren't supposed to be. He has a gun, but I got the clip." Sherlock placed it on the table where it certainly shouldn't have been. "Just watch for the one in the chamber and you'll be fine."

"Sherlock," Lestrade snapped, more viciously. "Why would you lead him into a crowded restaurant? You're endangering the public."

"He's not all that dangerous. The likelihood of him actually hitting anyone with one shot is safely low," Sherlock promised, placing the menu down with open fingers. "I'm surprised he even managed to shoot her at close range."

"You really need to stop being so reckless," Mycroft sighed, swallowing down another drink of the deep red. With Sherlock catty cornered from the door, he was easily where the man could see. As it turned out, John didn't deal with conflict well. Knowing the man was armed and spotting him in the reflection of his glass, John reacted without thinking about it. Fortunately, it wasn't with his gun. He wasn't exactly going to shoot q man in front of two people that would be very upset over such a small thing. Instead, he grasped the edge of his plate firmly and when he saw the man reaching for his weapon, John cracked him hard in the side of the head with the ceramic piece.

Stupid cunt trying to sneak up on him like that. This man clearly had no idea who he was. Of course, at the moment John barely knew who he was. It didn't actually matter as he proceeded to break the man's nose and jaw along with possible skull fractures with nothing but his dinner plate. Fucking bastard ruining his nice dinner date. John removed his tie and wrapped it twice around the man's neck with a simple twist before tying each end to his wrist to leave him in a difficult bind. The more he struggled, the more he choked himself, as it ought to be. John puffed angrily, straightened out the collar of his shirt, and returned to his seat.

"Waitress, another bottle of wine."

It was then that Sherlock realized John was different. It was undeniable, but he had wanted it to be untrue so badly. Sherlock had known John was changed when he accidentally snuck up behind him, wrapped his arms around his recently returned amor and received a black eye for his efforts. No amount of time or healing would change John back now. He'd adapted, as any survivalist did, and perhaps it was better, but it wasn't John. The little army man had been nulled to violence before, but now he was desensitized and aggressive. His John, his sweet, brave little doctor, had just broken a man's, admittedly an armed, known murder of a man, face with a plate. Sherlock had no doubt he would have shot him dead if he hadn't been sitting with a DI and the Government. Why? Because that was what Moriarty and Moran would have done.

How could he have let Moriarty do such a thing?

It was then that Greg knew that John was different. That no amount of talking, or cuddling, or therapy would rid him of the laws that Moriarty had changed within him. John wasn't his kind, strong, polite soldier anymore. Of course, he should have known better to expect him to be after what he had been through. He should have known he was changed after he'd seen what the doctor had done to his tormentors. No one was the same after facing the little psychopath. Not even Sherlock had stepped away unscaved and he had twice the mental capacity of John. He had seen kidnap victims suffer worse, but John was strong. He wouldn't let them control him for any longer than needed and now he was different.

How could he have let Moriarty do such a thing?

It was then that Mycroft realized Moriarty had won. If he couldn't have what he wanted, he was going to take what was most important to them. They hadn't been quick enough. He'd given up looking for John and he shouldn't have. He let Moriarty change John. He let him make him different and John didn't even know. He just sat there as if the blood spatter on his face was normal and the pained noises the bound man made didn't bother him. It was; they didn't. They couldn't fix that. Even if he could, how would he explain to John 'there's nothing wrong with you, but you need to be afraid of more things'. How far would this go? How much damage would John do when provoked and how many people would be stupid enough to provoke him, unknowing of wrath they would invoke? How long until John had to be taken into custody?

How could he have let Moriarty do such a thing?

John was aware of his boyfriends watching him with a certain kind of weariness, and guilt if he did say so, but he wasn't completely sure why. He incapacitated their murderer without getting anyone killed. Easy enough. John wiped a bit of the blood off of his hands with his cloth, dipping it in the icy water to rid his skin of the sticky residue. Greg awkwardly stood, reaching for his mobile with a small murmur.

"I'll call the Yard. Have them come pick him up," he assured them quietly before leaving the table. He spoke with the manager and helpful removed the murderer from the restaurant. Sherlock poised himself in the DI's chair, clearly intent on joining their date.

"Are you okay, John?" Mycroft questioned with a small press of the lips. John glanced to him with beige eyes, not completely sure of the question.

"Of course." There wasn't any reason he wouldn't be.

"Good job doing - that," Sherlock offered up awkwardly. John shot him a glare.

"Please stop bringing murderers, or any variation of, to my dates."

"I didn't know you'd be here. I thought you were going to be with Mycroft in some damp place," he scoffed, pouring himself a spot of the wine as well. Mycroft frowned.

"Gregory and I had some poor communication," he admitted.

"I see. You had to postpone your date from yesterday, clearly. Lestrade didn't know. By some infinity impossible coincidence, the two of you choose the same place and John made the logical assumption that he was meeting both of you," Sherlock flourished shamelessly. John frowned. Now that he thought about it, it did seem a little strange.

"Thank you, Sherlock. However, Gregory and I made the reasonable decision to not make a scene of it needlessly."

"Great. Then you won't mind if I join you. I did just solve my third case this week," Sherlock invited himself to stay and Mycroft only sighed minutely. There wasn't much harm in it now, was there? His original plan for the night had already gone out the window. Fortunately, it wasn't exactly a bad thing. John, despite seeming to have a flash of violence, was okay with this. He supposed there was no reason he shouldn't be.

Lestrade returned and quietly took the seat opposite to John. It simply wasn't worth arguing with Sherlock at the moment, and it didn't seem wise to make John uncomfortable at the moment, either. No one wanted to mention John's sudden lack of impulse control. He had been very easy to anger before, but John had always had a hold on it.

John placed his cup down pointedly and frowned a slightly worrisome, unJohn frown.

"Alright. Someone tell me what's going on," he insisted sharply, the very idea that they were planning something behind him back causing all kind of walls to go up and alerts to go off in his head. Sherlock, of course, managed to bring up delicate manners delicately.

"You destroyed that man's face with your plate."

"He had a gun. He had a gun that he was going to use to shoot you. Unless I have understood this situation wrong," John scowled.

"That's not the problem, John," Mycroft assured him swiftly.

"It's just- you usually don't resort to violence," Lestrade murmured with a worried grimace.

"Since when?" John bristled. "I can assure you I'm not what you thought I was."

"False," Sherlock snapped, irrate.

"If this is going to be a problem for you, any of you, then stop me." This was bad. Silence fell over the table, complex emotions causing internal debates with no 'best' answers. Fortunately, they all stayed internal. John seemed to skip back in thought.

"Oh god," he drowned the rest of his wine, much to his boyfriends' dismay. "That was terrible. I- That just came out of my mouth." The little blonde man rubbed his forehead with his fingers, pressing away the headache that his stress was bringing on.

"God. I - Fuck I'm broken," John murmured with a mouthful of distress and depression. He dropped his head onto the table.

"It'll be okay, John," Mycroft patted the back of his head softly.

"The more you realize it's wrong, the better we can help you and you can help yourself," Greg quietly tacked on, brushing his foot against his boyfriend's. Sherlock didn't offer a reply, though. He filled John's glass again. He didn't care if John was broken. John was here. He was here and he was safe. Sherlock couldn't bring himself to be greedy enough for more. There were only two possibilities when walking away from Moriarty: Dead or alive.

John was very much alive.

As it went, however, he wasn't alone in that notion.


	11. Time is a Terrible Healer Richard Brook

Everyone Loves Richard Brook  
>Time is a Terrible Healer<p>

Richard Brook: Is Real  
>Part Two<p>

John was getting better. He really was. But he wasn't.

In a years time, he was back to normal. He'd broken out of all of the habits that he had learned from being with Moriarty. But he hadn't. He had a handle on his anger again. But he didn't. And he was happy with his, admittedly unusual, relationship. But he wasn't. John was back to normal and they couldn't be happier. Only, there was something off. Sherlock didn't see it, Mycroft didn't notice, and Gregory's instincts were only minutely disturbed, but John knew it. John /knew/ there was something wrong, but he couldn't place his finger on it.

He felt absolutely fine and medically he couldn't be in better condition. So John couldn't find any source to this feeling and eventually, decided that it was caused by feeling 'unfinished'. John decided that he would only get rid of these feelings if he was allowed a final confrontation with his fear. He wasn't entirely sure what made him come to this conclusion, but he knew he felt very strongly about it and that was really all he needed. That was how people did it, after all, they confronted their fears and then happily ever afters. John really wanted a good, nice happily ever after. After he got his trauma out of the way, or most of it at least, he could finally get his relationship sorted out. It was slightly harder to bring up the request than he thought it would be, though. It was so obviously a bad idea, even to him, but he was driven to go through with it no matter what. He knew even if Moriarty was immobile, he could cause a great deal of damage with his sharp words alone.

So, as John sat on the sofa with his head on Mycroft's shoulder and Sherlock's head on his lap, he debated the best way to make himself sound less crazy than it was in his head. John absently stroked Sherlock's hair between his fingers, distantly trying to lull Sherlock to sleep. He had been doing well lately. Sherlock slept much better and John wondered quietly to himself why that was.

"You still have Moriarty locked up, right?" John started off innocently enough. Of course he was still locked up. If he wasn't, John was going to have a lot of less than kind words for Mycroft. His boyfriend glanced to him, grey eyes searching him for an ulterior motive that was very obviously there.

"Of course. You don't have to worry about him, John," Mycroft assured him, running a hand along his thigh soothingly. John smiled smalley.

"I want to talk to him," the little blond doctor explained as casually as he could. Sherlock nearly bashed his forehead on John's chin he was upright so fast. He adjusted himself to stare John dead in the eye, not amused in the slightest. It was a given that the thought of Moriarty doing anything more to their amor was going to be less than acceptable.

"No," the Holmes answered in coincidental harmony. Who said they couldn't agree? John glanced between them with a solid, determined stare.

"That wasn't really a question," John reminded them, instantly displeased by any attempt to control what was best for him. They clearly had no idea what was best for themselves (Sherlock especially), let alone him. He kneaded a palm into his thigh.

"I'm going to see Moriarty. For closure."

"You had plenty of closure when you shot him twice and fractured his skull. No," Sherlock insisted.

"That wasn't closure. That was bottled up rage. I need to know where he is and I need to know that I'm safe," John persisted, making it very clear that he was not going to budge on this subject. There were few times that he won against either of the Holmes, let alone both of them, but he was perfectly capable of doing so when he truly wanted to and they knew it.

"You are safe, John. Don't you feel safe with us?" Mycroft promised, quickly becoming weary of this situation. He wanted to escape but John wouldn't let him talk his way down another conversation.

"I do and I will know that so much better after I seen Moriarty in his cage."

"And what if he does something to you?" Sherlock kindly reminded him exactly what Moriarty was capable of without actually needing the words.

"You should be more worried about what I might do to him."

"Nothing," Mycroft drew on. "Because you're not going."

"Then I guess I'll just ask Anthea to take me. She's rather keen on overriding your decisions when it comes to personal matters. I'll just go alone while everyone's off doing something. Going alone is clearly the better choice." Unfortunately for Mycroft, John knew how to dance between his boyfriends. Anthea wasn't helpful in that matter whatsoever. She seemed intent on doing whatever kept John happy and ergo, Mycroft. It was purely to keep him working, and it worked, but he didn't like it.

"Fine," the Government gave in. "But if I think you're unsafe, it's over."

"I don't even need five minutes."

o-o-o

Moriarty was contained under very specific supervision. Due to the likelihood he would try to escape and his intelligence to do so, it was a tricky thing keeping eyes on him. Mycroft had already gone through half a dozen men and none of them even had direct contact with the psychopath. It just got to them, the paranoia that he was doing something and they weren't noticing. Mycroft, of course, checked on the man himself to assure everyone he wasn't and from afar, so did Sherlock. They couldn't actually risk putting Sherlock and Moriarty in the same room. Moriarty was at the end of his rope and Sherlock didn't know when to stop; they'd break each other.

Moran was typically easier to handle. He didn't try to escape, or free his boss, but he was very large and very violent. When he did decide to be violent, they quickly sedated him and he gave up. It definitely helped that John had severely maimed him. The two most dangerous men in London weren't so dangerous anymore. Supposedly. Mycroft didn't actually believe that and it only made him more reluctant to let John anywhere near either of them.

"Five minutes," Mycroft reminded the little blonde man. As much as he hated sending John in by himself, Mycroft would not step foot into Moriarty's cell making John's argument that he needed to go alone that much easier. John frowned slightly at him. He set a time limit assuming Moriarty would try something and John would need to be rescued. John knew they gave Moriarty too much credit sometimes. It was less harmful than underestimating him, but he was immobile and probably stir crazy. What could he possibly do? Still, John nodded softly in agreement and quietly followed the armed guard down the hall. The guard unlocked the heavy door and John padded in quietly. The door closed behind him loudly.

Moriarty turned his head up, looking no worse than he had before. His hair was a little disheveled and he was a little bruised, but he didn't look bare and he didn't look worn. It was truly the sign of crouching tiger. He wiggled in his binds and smirked.

"Moriarty," John greeted solemnly.

"Richard," Jim purred in response. John took swift, determined steps towards him, his shorter form easily looming over the seated criminal. He grabbed Jim's face in either of his hands, staring down at those listless, empty brown eyes with lively beige. Then his lips were on Jim's, desperate and needy.

"Jim," John breathed worriedly, peeking over his shoulder to where his hands were shackled tightly to the steel chair. He was bound so tightly, it hardly seemed fair. This wasn't Jim's fault. Of course, there would be no arguing that however. Why did he have to get the insanely powerful stalkers? "Fuck, Jim. God, fuck, I - I'm sorry Jim."

"Shh. It's okay Richard," Jim assured him. John brushed his hands through the man's hair, pushing it back into what it was better known as. John swallowed thickly.

"I don't know what happened." Everything was really fuzzy. John knew he'd done something, possibly under some kind of influence, but he wasn't too clear on what. He was with his bloody stalkers now and he had no idea why. No matter what had happened, why would he think that was a good idea?

"It's okay. You just have to help get me out of here now. Can you do that, Richard?" the criminal insisted, glancing towards the camera in the corner of the room. John nodded quickly, giving the man another apologetic kiss. It was his fault Jim was in here, he knew that, and he'd do anything to make up for his mistake.

"Whatever you need. I just- god I can't believe I did this to you."

"Shut up, Richard. You need to listen," Jim growled suddenly. John flinched. Same Jim, at least.

"Holmes, the old one, he has a chip, Richard. You need to get that. Okay?" he insisted quietly. John nodded again.

"Yes. I remember." That damned thing was what got him into the situation in the first place. Which was also very blurry, but John knew it was significant to something. He just couldn't focus on it like many things in his seemingly unusually short life.

"Good. Then you need to go back to the flat. I have a spare mobile hidden in the usual place. Call 'Back Up Two' and tell them they can have the chip on one condition. Hang up. Send the chip through the post to the address in the phone. Then come and see me again," Jim explained as swiftly as he could without losing the doctor in the middle. John was too well skilled in Moriarty to get lost with such a simple explanation.

"Got it." Flat, mobile, call, send.

"You're wonderful, Richard. I bribed one of the guards to fake some video and audio failures. Make sure he gets paid," the mastermind went on. "You should have enough time to see Sebastian. Tell him we're on plan b."

"I'm really sorry, Jim. I'll sort this out, okay? I'll see my doctor and everything," John promised worriedly. Something was clearly wrong with him. Jim might not show it now, but he was going to be really pissed about this later and John was not looking forward to that. He planted several more kisses on the man's lips before taking for the door with his new found information. The guard let him out and John took a quick pace towards Holmes.

"I need to see Moran," he demanded, knowing his time was limited as it was. He certainly didn't have time to argue with the creep.

"I don't think that's a wise decision," the older Holmes insisted, eyeing him with obvious disdain. He could tell something was wrong. He was a Holmes! Of course he knew when something was wrong! John cut through his thoughts as quickly as he could manage.

"I need to see Sebastian Moran," John demanded again, louder, sharper and more desperate. Holmes scowled, disapproving, but motioned to the guard anyways. John followed him anxiously. He could already feel the bile rising in his throat. His memory wasn't all that clear on anything after the group of lunatics had tried to kidnap him, but he just knew something bad had happened to Sebastian. He had done something bad to Sebastian and he had no idea why.

Because he was dangerous; one part of his mind told him. John silenced that part of his mind. Sebastian was probably the most deadly man he knew, but he wasn't deadly towards him. He had no reason to feel threatened by his boyfriend. The guard opened the cell door and John nearly lost his lunch. He managed to wait for the door to close before approaching the very confused, very aggressive, and very one armed man.

"What are you-"

"Sebastian. Oh god. I- oh god." John touched Sebastian's face tenderly, then down his neck to the empty sleeve.

"Richard?" Sebastian asked suspiciously.

"We don't have very long. Jim's down the hall. He says we're on to plan b," John explained quickly as to get it out of the way for more important things. Sebastian looked a little unsure, but whatever had brought it on wasn't verbalized. Instead, Sebastian grasped John's neck in his good hand, bringing him close and catching his mouth firmly. John gasped his wrist firmly, gladly returning the needy contact. Sebastian pressed him into the cold wall opposite of the door roughly, knocking the breath out of him and requiring John to pull away.

"Sebastian," he gasped softly, placing a nervous hand on Sebastian's wounded shoulder.

"Don't apologize again," Sebastian deadpanned immediately. John snapped his mouth shut and bit his lower lip nervously.

"But your arm-"

"You want to make it better? Make sure they pay, Richard. The old one especially. This is their fault. They made you do this," Sebastian assured him, capturing John's lips again with bruising force. The door snapped open suddenly.

"Sebastian Moran! You have three seconds to release Watson and back away," the guard shouted. Sebastian slowly put his hand up and backed away. The man motioned John out of the way with a hurried hand. He went with a final look at the man, worried of his well being proceeding this. Sebastian didn't offer him any comfort, only making John more nervous.

"John-"

John wasn't sure what was going on. He was distantly aware that he had just spoke to Moriarty, and Moran for some reason, but he couldn't remember any of either conversation. He glanced up to Mycroft with cloudy senses.

"Are you okay?" Mycroft asked with worrying anger. John blinked at him.

"Of course. I told you everything would be fine," John assured him, touching the older man's arm comfortingly. "I already feel better." It was like the murky darkness that had settled in the back of his mind had blown away. He felt the most lucid he had since this whole thing started. Mycroft didn't look convinced. He touched two gentle fingers to John's neck and John tilted his head a little to allow him to do all the looking he wanted.

"See? Perfectly fine," John promised again.

"I suppose." Mycroft didn't seem convinced. He wasn't paid much mind, however. John felt perfectly fine and was finally ready to move on with his life. His 'stay' with Moriarty was blurred and blackened from his thoughts and his memories. Perhaps repressing memories wasn't the best thing to do, but it felt wonderful. All he wanted to do now was get back to his life; no more Moriarty.

"Let's go home, Mycroft. Sherlock and Lestrade are probably at each other's throats by now."


End file.
